My Mistake
by JamesTheGreater
Summary: After a serious argument tears them apart, Freddie embarks on a cross-country journey to find Sam and maybe even learn a few things about himself along the way.
1. My Dreams are Nightmares

**I...don't own iCarly.**

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Every night, I have the same dream.

It always starts the same way. There are two people: me, holding a destroyed laptop, and Sam, with a smirk on her face. And we're facing each other in Carly's living room.

Then, the shouting starts.

"_SAM! I can't believe you just did that!"_

_Sam replied, unruffled. "Calm down, it's no big deal."_

_I was furious at her nonchalance. "You GLUED my laptop shut! HOW is this not a big deal?"_

"_Dude, it's just a computer. It's not like someone died or anything."_

"_Just-just a computer? Sam, I saved up my allowance for a long time to get this. Now it's completely MESSED UP!"_

"_Well, you can still use it to keep your papers in place."_

"_Hardee-har-har. A thousand dollar paperweight, Sam? Are you kidding me?"_

_She burst out laughing. "A THOUSAND DOLLARS? What the hell, Fredinand, you __**are**__ a nerd. A thousand bucks for a stupid, hunk of plastic?"_

"_SHUT UP! I don't care if I'm a nerd! All I know is that you are going to fix this."_

_Sam grinned smugly. "I kind of used industrial strength adhesive. Your laptop is screwed."_

"_ARGH! Why do you have to always do this stuff to me? You're such a pain in the neck."_

"_Yeah, well, you're a pain in the ass, Benson."_

"_Is that the best you can come up with? Dumb blonde."_

_Sam looked surprised for a second before retorting. "Momma's boy."_

"_Nut case."_

"_Limp noodle."_

"_Vicious monster."_

"_Butt munch."_

"_Delinquent." _

"_Major Dorko."_

_I thought for a moment before I said it. "Unlovable wench."_

_Sam gasped. Her eyes narrowed. "Take it back."_

"_No."_

_By now, Sam was seething. The anger in her eyes drilling into mine. She raised a fist and waved it threateningly. "Take it back or else I will punch you so hard, you won't be able to digest food correctly for weeks."_

_For some ridiculous reason, I felt like I was invincible. I feel as though I have the power to defeat the mighty Samantha Puckett. And before I can stop myself, I tear her down._

_"No. See, Sam, that's all you can do. Bully. Bully and be mean to people. I've had enough of it. Everyone's had enough of it. We all know it's an act. Sooner or later everyone leaves you. Everyone deserts you. Jonah, Pete, your Dad. You keep bringing up that my mom is insane. Well, at least she __**cares**__ about me. When was the last time your mom cooked you a nice warm dinner? Face it, Puckett. You're all alone in this world. So you build up walls. An act. You make yourself a tough girl. You bully and distance yourself because you don't want to feel pain. Because you know sooner or later, they're all going to leave. Which is why you've been downright horrible to me. Carly and I have already received our college acceptance letters. Where's yours? You're afraid of being left behind again. So first you separate from me. Then later, Carly. You know what, Sam? Congratulations. You've done it. You've successfully destroyed whatever connection we had. I want you out of my life. Out. Never talk to me again. I'm fed up with you and your torture. Leave."_

_I finish. _

_Sam stands there. Her eyes are brimming with hurt. She trembles._

_Then I see it. A tear. And as if time had slowed down, I see it leave the safety of its home. I see in travel down her smooth, pale cheek. I see it reach her jaw line. And I see it fall. I follow it. Down, down, down. Until it hits the ground. It makes a barely audible splash. _

_And my heart breaks. I realize what I have done and I can't breathe. The guilt quickly fills my body. I want to say I'm sorry, but all the words I think of sound hollow after what I said to her. I gather what little feeling I have left to raise my head...just in time to see a fist heading toward my face._

_And before it makes contact,_

I wake up.

Sweating and tangled in the sheets.

Sam has been gone for three months now. Before she vanished, she left two letters. One for me, one for Carly. I was there when Carly opened hers. She read it and looked at me with sad, angry eyes. We haven't talked since.

I haven't opened mine. I don't want to. I don't deserve to. I have placed it in under my pillow. Sometimes I wonder if it causes my dreams. And I have the urge to get rid of it. To be rid of my dreams. To be free.

But I can't.

Because just as Jacob Marley had his chains, I have my dreams. They remind me of what I said. What I did. To her. I have to bear the burden of my actions. This way justice is served. A life for a life. Her suffering must become my suffering.

And so every night, I have the same dream. And it will stay that way. Forever. For Sam.

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** Please, please, pleeeease review!**


	2. My Confrontation

I knock on the door.

A moment later, it opens. Spencer looks down at me with a cheerless expression. He shakes his head and starts to close the door. I stick out my hand and hold it open.

"Please, Spencer, I need to talk to Carly."

He stares at me. Then he sighs and lets me in. We stand in the living room. Spencer stares at me some more before muttering, "Carly's at the park. She'll be home in a few minutes."

Spencer heads toward his room. Just before he reaches his room, he turns around. He opens his mouth...then he struggles with himself and closes it. He shakes his head again and disappears.

I sit down on the couch and grab the remote ad press the power button. _Girly Cow_ comes on. I quickly turn it off and make my way to Carly's room. I open the door and I see a folded paper on the purple and white comforter of Carly's bed.

_The letter._

I slowly walk across the soft carpet. When I arrive at the side of the bed, I begin to reach down.

"What are you doing here?"

I retract my hand and spin around. Carly is standing there, her eyes so cold I freeze on the spot. She catches sight of the letter on her bed. She quickly strides across the room. In jerky movements, Carly snatches up the letter, opens her nightstand drawer, drops the paper in, and shuts it with a bang.

"I just wanted to see how you're holding up," I say.

Carly speaks in a low, deadly voice. "Get out."

"But—"

"Get out. Now."

"Carly, I'm sorry, I just –"

She was incredulous. "You're apologizing to ME?"

I look down at my feet. Carly continues.

"She told me everything, Freddie. Everything. And I- I just can't believe that you'd say those- those words. You broke her, Freddie. You broke her and she can't be fixed. Why'd you say it? Tell me, Freddie. Why did you have to go and- and ... ARGH, I can't even begin describe what you did."

I try to explain, even though I know I can't. "I guess I was just tired of the way she was treating me. I wanted her to stop. So I thought that if I–"

Carly interrupts"No, Freddie, you weren't thinking. You didn't think at all. You didn't realize that you were stronger than her, Freddie."

For obvious reasons, I was confused. "Um, no... not really..."

Carly lets out a growl of frustration. "I know she made your life extremely difficult, but you were always there. You always survived. You can handle things. But, she...she can't handle pain. It all started when her father left her, Freddie. All her relationships ended abruptly. It's been forever since her mom ever did anything for her. How would **you** feel?How would you feel if you realized no one cared for you? Would you come to school all happy and joyful? Would you live your life with a smile on your face?"

I stay silent.

"So Sam builds her walls. She tries distancing herself, just like you said. But you had to be an asshole. Freddie, I've been Sam's friend for a long time. You know why? Because I've been patient. I've realized she can't handle people leaving so I don't. No matter what happens, no matter what she does, I show I'll always be there for her. Even if she tries to push me away, I stay. That way I could've helped her to trust again. That way I could've fixed her. And you ruin it. She'd been feeling upset about the whole college thing, so she started acting out. I kept telling her it was all going to be okay. Then you have to go and mess it all up, just because you were having one bad day. How could you be so-so heartless?"

Tears start to flow down Carly's cheeks. I come forward and try to hug her, but she pushes me away.

"Y-you know what the w-worst part is? In her letter, she-she told me that you were right. That you were right about the walls, the bullying, everything. Sh-she told me that she was couldn't handle p-people leaving her. She t-told me that **she** was leaving so that she couldn't feel the p-pain of people leaving **her**. C- Can't you see what happened? You l-left her. But- but she couldn't take it anymore. She s-slipped into a sense of denial. She r-rejected your rejection. She left to make herself feel b-better."

I don't realize until now that Carly has been walking forward and I have been inching back. She shoves me out the door. "She told me to forgive you, Freddie. Can you believe that? You make her run away and she tells me to forgive you? No way in hell. Now get out of my apartment. Never come back. This friendship is over."

She slams the door. I hear her lean against the door and slide to the ground. I walk down the stairs and out of her life.

But as I get into bed later that night, I can still hear Carly crying.

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**I beg of you, "Review." (And please report any grammar/spelling mistakes. If you have the time.)**


	3. My Decision

I sit on the edge of my bed. It's dark outside; the shroud of night had descended hours ago. The only light in my room comes from a lamp with a slowly dying bulb. I hadn't bothered to replace it. There's nothing in my room worth seeing any more. In my hand is an envelope. Plain and white, it is deceptively simple.

It says my name in a messy scrawl. It's funny how handwriting usually reflects someone's personality. My writing is neat and orderly; block letters. Carly's is cursive; flowing, _i_'s dotted with various miniature faces with emotions, depending on her mood that day. Sam's is wild; unpredictable, uncontrollable, often crossing the lines, never the same.

It's in green ink. She always writes with a green pen. I remember asking her why. I hear her voice, "I'm Sam and I write in green. Now shut up, Shelby's fight is on." I now realize that's another moment of Sam shutting me out. I add it to my mental list. The list that made me say what I said. The guilt rises up. I scrap the piece of mind-paper the list is written on and throw it into the mind-trash bin.

I refocus on the envelope and turn it over. It's sealed. Five months since her departure and the dreams are still occurring. And I'm sure they'll be there whether I open the envelope or not, because by now, the dream is losing its purpose as a chain. Because by now, every night, I look for the dream; it's no longer a punishment. It's the last memory I have of Sam where I can see her face.

I take a knife, insert it under the seal, and cut it along the top edge. My hand starts to shake, so I quickly put down the knife. I take out the letter. Again, it's in her chaotic scribble. I read.

_Freddie,_

_If you're reading this, then I'm gone and you're headed the same way. You're asking why, right? Well, let's lay it all on the table. _

_You hurt me. A lot. I went home that day and realized that you were right. And that made me hurt even more. I didn't know I was doing these things for a reason, but then you shouted at me and I found out. Inside, I felt that nothing was ever going to be good ever again. I cried, Freddie._

_Then, I thought about all the things I did to you. And I felt that I deserved it. So I forgive you. For what you said. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all that I did to you. You were one of my best friends and I'm sorry for the way I treated you. For some reason, I felt that I needed to keep you away. I thought what I felt toward you was hatred. I was wrong. I never really hated you, Freddie. I thought about what you said and realized that I was just afraid of getting close to anyone. Especially you. Because-_

Here, there was a line that was blacked out with a permanent marker. I continue to read.

_So I learned my lesson. Never get close to anyone ever again._

_And speaking of which, take a look into your own life. What are you doing now? What friends do you have? No doubt, Carly is pissed and never wants to see you again (even though I told her to forgive you). iCarly is dead. All you have left is your mom, which is pretty sad indeed. And so I suggest you leave. I'm not saying the same thing you said to me. No, I'm saying you need to break away. I know you're having dreams every night, Freddie. I know that you will most likely carry these as a sign of penance. I know that you will carry these for me. Stop. Leave everything behind. Forget all you knew. Run. That way there will no longer be any pain. Run. Like I did. Run and never look back. _

_Don't try to find me. The only way you can see me again is if we happen to meet out there. In life. In a world where feelings and connections are hallucinations; visions that we desire to forget our mediocre existence, an existence based on survival. We seek "communications" and "relationships" to convince ourselves that we are living for something. We want to believe that happiness can come from how many people we affect, how many people we connect with, how many people we love. I've come to learn that this is not the case. Survival is based on instinct. The need to do what is beneficial to life. Eating, sleeping, breathing. Anything else causes pain which is detrimental to survival.  
So if we somehow meet, against all odds in this big, wide world, I will remember you and you will remember me. We can talk together. Eat together. Breathe together. Sleep together. But both you and I will understand that it will be nothing more than survival._

_Because when it all comes down to it, the only thing we really need is ourselves._

_Sam_

I let the letter fall from my hands. That's it. Sam is gone. Completely gone.

But she is wrong. Very wrong.

I grab my backpack.

She needs to be set straight.

I fill it with clothes.

She needs to know.

I stuff my wallet with all my money.

She needs to understand that it is impossible to live with only ourselves.

I reach under my bed and feel the corner of the box. I take it out.

She needs to learn that what makes us who we are...

I take a picture out of the box.

...are the people we care for.

I rip Sam from the picture and put her in my pocket.

* * *

Mrs. Benson woke up and set about her day. She bustled around the kitchen preparing a nice, wholesome breakfast for her dear Freddiekins. She finished making the wheat pancakes, set out the sugar-free syrup, and poured a glass of organic, fat-free milk. She looked at the clock. 7:24. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. If Freddie didn't wake up soon, he was going to be late to school. She walked to his room and opened the door. His room was clean and his bed was made. On his pillow was a picture of her son and Carly. It had a jagged edge, almost as if someone had torn it. Next to the picture was an envelope. And it shaky block letters it said:

_Mom,_

_I'm sorry but I had to leave. There was something I had to fix. Thank you for all that you've done for me. I know that I've been difficult, but I really appreciate everything. _

_I don't know what will happen or if I'm coming back. Don't look for me. Please understand. It's just something I needed to do._

_I love you._

_Your son, _

_Fredward Benson_

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**Thanks for reading. Revieeeeeew**


	4. My Visit

**I do not own iCarly.**

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I walk down the sidewalk, away from the place I used to call home. My hands are stuffed in my jacket pockets. It wasn't smart leaving in the middle of the night. I'd forgotten what kind of people frequent the Seattle streets at one in the morning. I see two coming towards me, one fat, one skinny, both looked rough. In my pockets, my hands clench into fists. I look at the ground, trying to avoid eye contact. We pass without incident. I let out a breath. I know I had gotten stronger, but there was no way I could've taken on both at once.

The wind blows harder. I zip up my jacket. It doesn't help. The cold still penetrates down to my bones. I look up and realize my feet have taken me to the park. Usually filled with the laughter of children, it's silent, save for the trees rustling in wind.

I make my way over to the bench next to the playground and sit down. The swings creak, adding to the sound of the leaves. The summer after sophomore year, we were the biggest kids to roam the playground. I don't know why, but something about Sam and Carly always made me want to play, to have senseless fun as though I were still five. I look down at the bench. Carved in the wood is "Freddie is a nub". I shake my head and take out my penknife and cross out the last two words.

* * *

Routine causes me to wake up at seven. I forget where I am for a second. After that second passes, I stretch and sit up, shaking the sleep out of my arms and legs. The sun shines, but it's still too cold to take my jacket off. A car drives along the far edge of the still empty park. It turns the corner and disappears from view. I suddenly remember that I have no idea where to start. I think back. Sam hadn't said or wrote anything to suggest where she might have gone.

I take out her picture and stare into her blue eyes hoping they would tell me where to go. They don't. They don't because they sparkle and laugh; they have nothing to do with the Sam that wrote the letter.

The laughter I saw in the eyes fills the air. I quickly look up, hopeful; but it turns out to be just a little girl on a swing. A lady is behind the girl pushing her every time she came back down. I hear the girl scream in delight.

"Higher, mommy, higher!"

It comes to me in a flash. I know Mrs. Puckett had very little to do with her daughter besides giving birth to her, but I had to begin somewhere. So I decided I would pay a visit to the last place Sam probably was before she left. And maybe Mrs. Puckett knew something, maybe she didn't. There was no other option.

I put the picture back into my pocket and reach down to grab my backpack. My eyes stray to the carving on the bench. I again take out my knife.

* * *

The boy was just sitting there staring at a picture. Teenagers were getting harder to understand. My daughter let out a burst of laughter. I refocus on pushing her on the swing.

"Higher, mommy, higher!"

So I pushed harder. She laughed harder. Remembering the boy, I turned my head in time to see him take out a knife and carve something into the bench. Damned vandals. The boy leaves. I tell my daughter to play in the sand and walk over to the bench.

"Freddie is sorry."

* * *

The neighborhood is dilapidated. Trash is strewn throughout the yards. Windows are boarded up. Hobos are lounging in elaborate cardboard mansions. I've only been to Sam's house twice and both times I was in a car. I try my best to not attract attention.

Sam's house is the only house on the block that is bright yellow with a purple roof. Sam stole my money and paid some guy to paint it that way to make it "unique". I asked her why she bothered because she spends most of her time at Carly's house anyways. She just looked at me and told me this was her house. Now I understand what she meant: that this house was all she could salvage from the wreck that was her home life. She had to keep it up or else all was lost.

I knock on the door. No one answers. I am prepared to knock again, when it opens.

"What's up, handsome?"

Even when she's drunk, Sam's mom is still beautiful. Like an older, taller, curvier version of her daughter, she had long, wavy blonde hair, and brilliant blue eyes. And right now, she had on the exact same smirk.

I ask, "May I come in, Mrs. Puckett?"

Her words are slurred when she answers. "Yeah, sure, with a face and body like yours, you can do anything you want."

I blush as I cross the threshold. She closes the door behind me. The room smells of a strange mixture of beer and cinnamon. The living room has changed since the last time I was here. Trinkets decorated shelves. Paintings hung on the walls. It was really cleaned up, excluding the beer cans the littered the floor around the couch.

I turn around to find that Mrs. Puckett has gotten extremely close to me. She grabs my arm and sits me down on the couch.

"Well, what are you here for, sugar?"

I take her hand off my arm and move back a few inches.

"Mrs. Puckett—"

"Enough with the 'Mrs. Puckett'. It makes me feel old." She scoots closer to me. I try to move back, but my back already against the armrest. She leans in. Her hot breath tickles my ear as she whispers, "Call me Liz."

I quickly stand up.

"Do you know who I am, Mrs. Puckett?"

She looks at me, confused. "Um...some hot dude who knocked on my door?"

I sigh. "I'm Freddie. Freddie Benson. Sam's... friend."

Mrs. Puckett tilts her head. "Who's Sam?"

For a moment, I am speechless. She doesn't know her own...

"You know, Samantha Puckett?"

She shakes her head.

"Your daughter?"

She jumps up. "I have a daughter? When did this happen?"

Unbelievable. How can she not know she had a daughter? Then I remember the beer cans and I sigh again. The effects of alcohol had clearly erased Mrs. Puckett's memory of ever having Sam. I take out my picture of Sam a hold it up.

"When was the last time you saw this girl?"

She snatches the picture out of my hand and stares at it. She sits back down. "So that's who she is."

I sense a break through. "What do you mean?"

Mrs, Puckett looks up at me. "This girl was here. A long time ago. She told me was going to live with Aunty Kate."

"Aunty Kate?"

"My sister. She lives in New York."

New York.

I check my watch.

I have time.

**

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Reviews are greatly appreciated.**


	5. My First Steps

**IDOI (I Don't Own ICarly)**

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The city is now awake and the park is full of people. Frisbees, baseballs, and footballs fill the air. Dogs bark and strain on leashes. Children shout. Every now and then, a jogger passes where I sit.

Clear water cascades into a sizable basin, spraying a fine mist into the Seattle sky. The fountain was always a favorite of Sam's. It's supposed to be abstract but she said it was shaped like a ham. The ham is stainless steel. It reflects the world around it. Surprisingly, a recognizable face stares back at me. For a second, I feel relief. Then I remind myself I had barely begun.

My phone vibrates and I take it out. It tells me my mom is calling. I make a decision and throw the phone into the water. It makes a splash and sinks to the bottom. There's no reason for anyone to call me anymore. And there's no reason for me to call anyone. The only person I would call right now doesn't want to be found.

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New York.

Two words that represent thousands of miles. I still can't fathom the distance of such a place. It's on the other side of the continent. I'm 17 and I have about $200. There's no way.

Realistically, I should give up. Realistically, I should abandon my journey. Realistically, I should go home to my coddling mother. Realistically, I should live my life as though nothing ever happened. Realistically. But then again, Sam Puckett had always been unrealistic.

* * *

Before I started to hang out with Carly and Sam, the Seattle Public Library was my home away from home. Even though the circumstances are depressing, I feel comforted as I enter the old building. I head straight toward the computers. A visit to the Gamma Airlines website and I find that a price of a one-way ticket to New York is going to knock out most of my cash. Travel by plane is out of the question. I make my way to the atlases. The gap between Seattle and New York strains my eyes, but I brave through it. I trace my route with my finger.

After a quick stop at Schneider's Books to get a map, I arrive at the charter bus station. A curtain of rain descends on the city. The line is agonizingly slow. I'm drenched by the time I get to the ticket window.

They say every journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

"One ticket to Spokane, please."

I get on at 7:45. The bus leaves at 8:00. I have a 5 hour journey ahead of me so I get comfortable, glad I don't have an aisle seat. An elderly lady sits down next to me. She smiles. I smile back then turn to stare out the window. My breath gets caught in my throat. The night had arrived. A face stares back at me. I no longer see Freddie Benson.

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**This chapter was inspired by Dawn by Elei Wiesel. Giving credit where it's due.**

**Please review!**


	6. My Dr Phil

**IDOI (I Don't Own iCarly)**

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"_SAM! I can't believe you just did that!"_

_Sam replied, unruffled. "Calm down, it's no big deal."_

_I was furious at her nonchalance. "You GLUED my laptop shut! HOW is this not a big deal?"_

"_Dude, it's just a computer. It's not like someone died or anything."_

"_Just-just a computer? Sam, I saved up my allowance for a long time to get this. Now it's completely MESSED UP!"_

"_Well, you can still use it to keep your papers in place."_

"_Hardee-har-har. A thousand dollar paperweight, Sam? Are you kidding me?"_

_She burst out laughing. "A THOUSAND DOLLARS? What the hell, Fredinand, you __**are**__ a nerd. A thousand bucks for a stupid, hunk of plastic?"_

"_SHUT UP! I don't care if I'm a nerd! All I know is that you are going to fix this."_

_Sam grinned smugly. "I kind of used industrial strength adhesive. Your laptop is screwed."_

"_ARGH! Why do you have to always do this stuff to me? You're such a pain in the neck."_

"_Yeah, well, you're a pain in the ass, Benson."_

"_Is that the best you can come up with? Dumb blonde."_

_Sam looked surprised for a second before retorting. "Momma's boy."_

"_Nut case."_

"_Limp noodle."_

"_Vicious monster."_

"_Butt munch."_

"_Delinquent." _

"_Major Dorko."_

_I thought for a moment before I said it. "Unlovable wench."_

_Sam gasped. Her eyes narrowed. "Take it back."_

"_No."_

_By now, Sam was seething. She raised a fist and waved it threateningly. "Take it back or else I will punch you so hard, you won't be able to digest food correctly for weeks."_

_For some ridiculous reason, I felt like I was invincible. I feel as though I have the power to defeat the mighty Samantha Puckett. And before I can stop myself, I tear her down. "No. See, Sam, that's all you can do. Bully. Bully and be mean to people. I've had enough of it. Everyone's had enough of it. We all know it's an act. Sooner or later everyone leaves you. Everyone deserts you. Jonah, Pete, your Dad. You keep bringing up that my mom is insane. Well, at least she __**cares**__ about me. When was the last time your mom cooked you a nice warm dinner? Face it, Puckett. You're all alone in this world. So you build up walls. An act. You make yourself a tough girl. You bully and distance yourself because you don't want to feel pain. Because you know sooner or later, they're all going to leave. Which is why you've been downright horrible to me. Carly and I have already received our college acceptance letters. Where's yours? You're afraid of being left behind again. So first you separate from me. Then later, Carly. You know what, Sam? Congratulations. You've done it. You've successfully destroyed whatever connection we had. I want you out o my life. Out. Never talk to me again. I'm fed up with you and your torture. Leave."_

_I finish. _

_Her eyes are brimming with hurt. She trembles._

_Then I see it. A tear. And as if time had slowed down, I see it leave the safety of its home. I see in travel down her paled cheek. I see it reach her jaw line. And I see it fall. I follow it. Down, down, down. Until it reaches the ground. It makes a barely audible splash. _

_And my heart breaks. I realize what I have done and I can't breathe. The guilt quickly fills my body. I gather what little feeling I have left to raise my head...just in time to see a fist heading toward my face. And before it makes contact,_

_I dodge it._

_I grab her wrist. And I hear myself whisper._

"_I'm sorry, Sam. I-I didn't mean it."_

_She glares at me, her eyes still shining with uncried tears. "I hate you."_

_She runs to the door and wrenches it open. "And I mean it."_

_The door slams._

And I wake up, sweating, in a now uncomfortable seat on a bus headed toward Spokane.

Outside, it's raining even harder. Miniature rivers run diagonally across the window. I rest my forehead on the cool glass and close my eyes, taking deep breaths, hoping to calm myself down. It brings a temporary relief.

The bus is dark. Everyone is asleep, settled in for the long trip. The soft sound of snoring permeates the air. In the dim light, the neon green numbers on my watch read 9:03. It's only been an hour since we left the station. I sigh. I glance at the bespectacled, elderly lady next to me. To my surprise, she's staring back. She looks sympathetic.

"Rough dream?"

I shake my head. "Rough is an understatement."

"How so?"

I look around. "What? You want me to tell you about it? Right now?"

She grabs my wrist and checks my watch. "We have quite a bit of time, sonny."

I'm still unsure of whether or not I should talk with a complete stranger. And apparently, she can read my face like a book.

"I can see you're hesitant so let's break the ice, eh? My name is Martha Springfield. I've been on this Earth for 62 years. Now it's your turn."

She looks at me expectantly.

"Um...I-I'm Freddie Benson. I'm s-seventeen."

"Try not to stutter. It makes you sound stupid."

I gape at her. "Wha—"

She burst out laughing. "You shoulda seen your face! Jeez, Freddie, where's your sense of humor? I thought teenagers were supposed to be laid back and all that. I'm 60 and you're already older than me."

I can't help but smile. Her good nature is infectious.

Martha quiets down. She adjusts her glasses. "Well, now that I got a smile out of you, what's your situation?"

I take a deep breath. "What happened was..."

And I tell her. Everything. I tell her about the fight. I tell her about the dreams. I tell her about the letters. Everything. And it feels good. To have someone listen. To get everything out in the open.

The weight doesn't leave my chest, but it grows significantly smaller.

When I finish, she takes off her glasses and cleans them with a small cloth. She puts her glasses back on.

"Let me see this girl."

I take out my picture of Sam and hand it to her.

She takes in the blonde hair, the blue eyes, the bright smile. Martha grins back at photograph. "Boy, you messed up bad."

"Yeah. I kinda realized that."

"But you are on this bus are you not?"

"Yes."

"And I presume you are trying to find her?"

"Yes."

"Then all is good."

I accept this statement for a moment. But then another thought comes to mind.

"But am I doing the right thing?"

She turns her head and her gold frames catch the light of a passing car.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, in the letter she told me she didn't want to be found. She said the only way we'll meet is by accident. What if I show up and she..."

"Doesn't want you there?"

"Yeah."

Martha sighs. "The way I see it is that you have two choices. The first one is to turn back. To obey her wishes, to give in to the fear of disappointment, and to never see her again. The second one is to continue. To find her, face this possible disappointment, but to be able to see her for at least one last time."

I snort. "That doesn't really give me a choice. If I choose the first one, then I'll be a wimp."

Martha snickers. "Yeah, a true wuss."

"A Class A coward."

"A 'No Balls Benson'."

At this last one, we both burst out laughing. Then we remember that most of the others are sleeping. We manage to douse our laughs until they were only giggles. I let out a contented sigh. Then my doubts return.

"But still..."

Martha places her head in her hands. " Freddie..."

"What? I'm just wondering..."

She looks back up at me. "Let me ask you this, Freddie...why are looking for her in the first place?"

I think for a moment. Then I reply. "The person who wrote the letter wasn't Sam. And I wanted her back."

"Well, there you go."

"There I go what?"

"Every time you think about listening to Sam and abandoning your quest, just remember that it wasn't Sam who said that."

I contemplate this for a second. "Thanks, Martha."

"You're welcome, kiddo."

She settles back into her seat. We sit in silence, the only sound coming from the rain thundering on the roof of the bus. I check my watch again. 9:59.

Martha abruptly speaks. "Do you love her?"

I glance at her. Then I look out the window. A truck rumbles by.

"We didn't get along."

Martha chuckles and from her reflection, I know she's looking at me.

"Freddie, that wasn't the question."

* * *

**Review or else I show up at your house with a baseball bat... just kidding. I'm not that kind of guy. Am I?**


	7. My Answer

**IDOI**

** So another kinda short chapter. **

* * *

It's 2:00 AM and I'm still awake. I could blame it on the bed springs digging into my back or the hot, itchy blanket or even the heavy, suffocating air. But then I'd be lying. I turn on to my side and stare at the small digital clock on the nightstand until the red light of the 2:01 becomes a blur. My vision shifts to the scrap of paper next to the clock. Martha's phone number with instructions to call when I sort everything out. I remember our conversation.

_Martha abruptly speaks. "Do you love her?"_

_I glance at her. Then I look out the window. A truck rumbles by._

"_We didn't get along."_

_Martha chuckles and from her reflection, I know she's looking at me. "Freddie, that wasn't the question."_

_I close my eyes. "I...what does it mean to love someone?"_

"_What do think it means?"_

"_I heard that love means never having to say you're sorry."_

_Martha snorts. "Who fed you that crap?"_

_I feel a little hurt and open my eyes. "It happens to be a well known movie quote. Everyone says it."_

_She laughs and shakes her head. "Freddie, I've been married for about 40 years. My husband and I are very much in love. But if he messes up, he better come crawling on his knees. Love doesn't mean never having to say you're sorry. Love means knowing that you have to say sorry and doing whatever you can to show that you are." _

"_So..."_

"_You're in a bus on a cross country trip. I'm pretty sure you're sorry. And I'm pretty sure you love her."_

_I try to get my mind to absorb this fact. And it turns out to be surprisingly easy. I try the words out._

"_I love her. I love Sam. Sam Puckett."_

_They roll off my tongue as if I had been saying them for a long time. Interesting. Then I realize something. "Hey, Martha, If you knew, then why'd you ask?"_

"_..."_

"_Martha?"_

"_..."_

_Turning my head, I see that Martha had fallen asleep, reminding me that I need to do the same._

_At the bus station, just as she was getting into her son's car, she hands me a scrap of paper. I remember my question. "Martha, if you already knew I love her then why did you ask?"_

_She closes the door and rolls down the window. "It was never about __**me**__ knowing you love her, it was about __**you **__knowing."_

_She rolls up the window and they take off. I wave._

I get up, more restless than before. I grab my backpack and walk to small, chipped, wooden table that was against the wall of the motel room. I take out the letter and read it again. And again. I read it until the words are imprinted in my mind. Etched into stone. I take out her still smiling picture. I remember the words from the letter.

_Because when it all comes down to it, the only thing we really need is ourselves._

And for the first time since Sam left, for the first time in five months, I cry.

* * *

I rolled up the window.

My son's curiosity gets the better of him.

"Who was that?"

I watched as the buildings flashed by. "A young man I met on the bus. Freddie Benson."

"What was that paper you gave him?"

"My phone number."

I feel him tense up. I look over to see that his fingers are white knuckled on the steering wheel.

"Why did you feel the need to give a complete stranger your phone number?" He asked in a gruff voice.

"Relax, Ricky. Freddie's a nice kid. He just got himself in some trouble. Needed someone to talk to is all. I gave him my number because wanted to know when he finishes his journey."

"Journey?"

"Headed to New York. For a girl."

Ricky's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "For a girl? He's travelling cross country for a girl?"

"Yep. Poor kid didn't even know he was in love. But I sorted him out."

* * *

**Review, reduce, and recycle! CHA!**


	8. My Own Space

**IDOI**

* * *

_For some ridiculous reason, I felt like I was invincible. I feel as though I have the power to defeat the mighty Samantha Puckett. And before I can stop myself, I tear her down. "No. See, Sam, that's all you can do. Bully. Bully and be mean to people. I've had enough of it. Everyone's had enough of it. We all know it's an act. Sooner or later everyone leaves you. Everyone deserts you. Jonah, Pete, your Dad. You keep bringing up that my mom is insane. Well, at least she __**cares**__ about me. When was the last time your mom cooked you a nice warm dinner? Face it, Puckett. You're all alone in this world. So you build up walls. An act. You make yourself a tough girl. You bully and distance yourself because you don't want to feel pain. Because you know sooner or later, they're all going to leave. Which is why you've been downright horrible to me. Carly and I have already received our college acceptance letters. Where's yours? You're afraid of being left behind again. So first you separate from me. Then later, Carly. You know what, Sam? Congratulations. You've done it. You've successfully destroyed whatever connection we had. I want you out o my life. Out. Never talk to me again. I'm fed up with you and your torture. Leave."_

_I finish. _

_Her eyes are brimming with hurt. She trembles._

_Then I see it. A tear. And as if time had slowed down, I see it leave the safety of its home. I see in travel down her paled cheek. I see it reach her jaw line. And I see it fall. I follow it. Down, down, down. Until it reaches the ground. It makes a barely audible splash. _

_And my heart breaks. I realize what I have done and I can't breathe. The guilt quickly fills my body. I gather what little feeling I have left to raise my head...just in time to see a fist heading toward my face. And before it makes contact,_

_I dodge it._

_I grab her wrist. And I hear myself whisper._

"_I'm sorry, Sam. I-I didn't mean it."_

_She glares at me, her eyes still shining with uncried tears. "I hate you."_

_She runs to the door and wrenches it open. "And I mean it."_

_I manage to grab the handle before the door slams shut. Bursting into the hallway, I see Sam's hair whip around the corner._

"_Sam, wait!"_

_I run after her. I hear the sound of shoes against metal so I know she's taking the stairs. But as I reach the door to the stairwell, I trip. The ground rushes up to meet my face. The world turns black._

_And on the edge of my consciousness, I hear a voice._

"OPEN UP, KID! YOU ONLY PAID FOR A NIGHT!"

I slowly open my eyes to the drab interior of a motel room. I look around. It seems I fell asleep at the table. The sunlight streams through the cracked and broken blinds casting a maze of yellow lines over the floor. The walls are covered with puke green wallpaper. And even though the bed is a twin, it still takes up a lot of space in the cramped room.

_Wow, I really know how to pick 'em. But I guess I really had no choice._

I recall from last night the overweight, bald man who gave me the room for the sum of thirty dollars. It was his last room and he said I had to pay extra for arriving at one in the morning. Of course I couldn't argue because it was either that or spend the night on the streets in a strange town.

A loud banging breaks me from my thoughts. The door shakes with every pound from his fist.

"OPEN UP! OR I'LL CHARGE YOU MORE FOR STAYIN' DURING THE DAY!"

I hurriedly gather my belongings. I can't afford to pay.

* * *

I'm talking with Donny when a boy walks in. After years as a waitress, you learn to study people quickly and quietly. He looked to be about in his late teens. He had a backpack hanging on one shoulder and he wore rumpled clothes. He looked like he was going somewhere. And he looked tired. Real tired. Not tired as in "I didn't get any sleep". Tired as in "I can't deal with anything anymore".

He slides into a booth.

"Wait, Donny, I got a customer."

I grab a pen and a pad. Just before I reach his table, I put on a smile. It seems like he needs it.

* * *

The Roadside Diner smells of burnt bacon and hash browns. It's nearly empty save for a few truckers and a tired police officer. I sit down in a booth and order some toast and a cup of coffee from the painfully chipper waitress.

I take out my map and a pencil. I outline my route. I write down the cities I plan to go to on a paper napkin and read the list over and over until I remember everything. I fold up the map.

The waitress comes back with my order. She sets it on the table.

"Here, honey. You have a nice meal now, alright?"

"Thanks."

I rip open two packets of sugar and a thing of Half & Half and empty them into my cup. Stirring with a spoon, I breathe in the heavy fumes, trying to wake up my mind. I take a big gulp. The scalding, semi-bitter beverage is strangely comforting. After not eating anything for a couple days, the toast tastes delicious. I am tempted to order more food, but for some reason, I figure I won't be able to keep it down. I drain the rest of the coffee and head toward the counter. I try to get the waitress' attention.

"Um...excuse me. Miss?"

She breaks off her conversation with a red-headed trucker and turns to me, smiling. "Yes, sugar?"

"I'd like to pay for my meal, please."

She nods and walks to the cash register. "Toast and a coffee comes up to...$4.70."

I hand her a five. "Keep the change."

She nods again. She's about to go back to her conversation, but I ask her a question.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but what's the cheapest way to get to Butte, Montana?"

If she's surprised, she hides it well. She answers with her still cheerful expression. "I reckon you either take the bus or take a train, sonny. But now what's a young fella like you—"

"Ahem."

I turn to see the trucker standing next to me.

He speaks in a deep, gravelly voice. "The name's Donny. I couldn't help but over hear you're headed to Butte."

I nod nervously. "Yes, sir."

He continues. "Well, I'm headed that way right now. You can catch a ride with me if you want."

* * *

We don't talk. We pass into Idaho. We pass out of Idaho. Fields, forests, and towns flash by and yet, the only sound is the rumble of the engine. And I can't take it anymore.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm going to Butte?"

Donny glances at me then refocuses on the road. "Why would I do that?"

I am confused. "Well, I'm still a kid. And I'm travelling. Alone. Taking rides from strangers. People usually ask me what I'm doing. Like back at the dinner, that waitress was about to ask me."

He scratches his chin. "I'm not Betty. She likes to connect with people. She likes talking. But I understand that sometimes you just need some space. You seem like you got a lot on your mind. It's not my place to interfere."

This is new to me. Someone who actually respects my space and considers me competent in solving my own problems. After years of my mom taking care of me, coddling me, and treating me like I was five, I realize that I am now truly on my own. And surprisngly, I feel scared. Scared of the distance to New York. Scared of the uncertainty of my position. Scared of being alone. And I remember what Sam said about not needing anyone. And I wonder if she feels scared.

* * *

A soft nudge eases me from the comfort of sleep.

"Hey, kid. Wake up."

I groan and open my eyes. We're at a gas station in what looks to be the industrial zone. I stretch out the kinks in my limbs and I turn to Donny.

He grins. "You fell asleep for quite a while there. It's 5 o'clock in the afternoon now."

"Where are we?"

"We're in Butte, Montana. Well, kinda. We're in an industrial area on the outskirts of Butte. I already dropped off my shipment. From here, I'm going to go north into Canada."

I open the door and jump out. The air is hot compared to the air-conditioned interior of the truck. Donny comes around to my side of the vehicle.

"Downtown is that way," he points out. "And suburbia is that way."

"Oh. Ok, thanks for the ride, Donny."

He grabs my arm before I can walk off. He gestures toward the convenience store. "Wait, don't you want something to eat? You've had nothing since this morning. I'll buy."

I shake my head. "That's ok, I'm not really hungry."

"Alright then. Happy trails, junior." He gives me a salute and I salute back. I spin around and stride towards the main road.

I have a train to catch.

* * *

The kid walks off. I feel guilty for leaving him like that, but then I convince myself he's a trooper. He can take care of himself.

I remember that I need to fill the tank with diesel (and fill my stomach with nourishment) so I head toward the store to pay the attendant. The bell dings as I open the door. I make my way to the snack isle and grab some Turkey Jerky and a pack of Fat Cakes.

Slapping the food on the counter, I see the attendant is watching the news on a small TV.

"Excuse me?"

The attendant jerks around. "Oh, sorry, I didn't hear you come in. I was watching the news."

"That's alright. Well, I'd like these and $50 of diesel for my rig."

"Ok, let me ring that up for you."

When he goes to the register, I have an unimpeded view of the TV. The news anchor is reporting a missing child.

"A runaway teen from Seattle, Washington has been missing for two days. A letter was found that informed the unfortunate mother of her son's flight. The teen has been identified as 17-year-old Freddie Benson of the popular web show, iCarly. Here is a picture of Freddie taken a year ago."

A picture flashes up. Lord Almighty.

"...and if anyone has seen or heard of Freddie, please inform the local law enforcement."

I whip around and look out the window. Freddie has already disappeared from view.

The attendant regains my attention. "Tsk tsk, kids these days. Always running away and causing trouble."

"Yeah, I hope they find him soon."

I grab my food and walk out of the store.

* * *

**A thank you to what lurks beneath for the 'search for Freddie' idea.**

**May I have a review? I will gladly pay you Tuesday. (Not really. (But still review please.))**


	9. My Insignificant Actions

**IDOI**

* * *

The station is crowded, full of joyous hellos and tearful goodbyes. Trains are coming and leaving every other minute. The clickety-clack sound of the wheels blends with the sound of talking, shouting, screaming, and crying. Baggage and children are lost and found. There are no definite pathways so the masses move wildly like scattered ants. And yet, people get on, people get off; they're all headed somewhere. They're all robots, given a destination and told to get there, no matter what the obstacles are. It's a kind of organized chaos.

The price of an overnighter is $4 0.54. I hand over a two twenties and a one and receive a quarter, two dimes, a penny, and a train ticket to Billings. I drop the change in a guitar case belonging to a scruffy looking street musician. Then I look at the ticket. Then I check my watch. Shit. The train is at the other end of the station and I have only a little over a minutes to get there.

I take off, narrowly dodging around various objects and people, determined to make the train. I collide with a man hurrying in the opposite direction, but I don't stop to apologize. My mother would be appalled.

I get on a second before the door closes. A man checks my ticket and I take my seat. The train starts slowly, but it gains speed with every passing moment.

I look around. There are businessmen and women reading newspapers, families with bawling babies, and some people that just look like they wanted to go somewhere. But one thing is clear: there are no other teenagers travelling alone. Next to me, there's a stone faced suit with a briefcase and an expensive watch. He's reading an important looking document filled with red and black numbers.

"Can I help you?"

I look up to find him glaring at me.

Embarrassed, I answer, "Sorry, um, no."

And I turn away before he can say anything else.

A couple hours later, the sun was sinking into the ground and the sky was turning a rich navy blue. Some early stars twinkled signaling the arrival of night.

The business man is already asleep, his head leaning on the window. A lady pushing a cart walks up the aisle. She arrives at me row.

"Anything off the trolley, dear?"

It is stacked with sandwiches, chips and candy bars. I feel tempted for a second. I reach for my wallet, but then I remember I'm not even halfway there. I have to conserve my money. I retract my hand.

"No, thanks."

She gives me a smile and a nod free of charge and continues on her way.

I lean my head back and close my eyes, the faint clickety-clack lulling me to sleep.

I wake up, confused as to why I felt vibrations through my body. An abrupt snore from the business man reminds me. The sun is bright a cheerful and its rays float through the window, though somehow they fall short of my seat.

I sigh, frustrated with the monotony of yet another long trip in a mass transportation vehicle. Even though we're travelling at around 60 mph, I feel the need to go faster. Sitting around is as if I'm doing nothing. So I get up and walk around, trying to feel the warmth of satisfaction. Of achievement. Of getting this far. But I can't. Because I have nothing to be proud of until I find Sam. Nothing.

So I sit back down and wait for the train to stop.

* * *

A good thief puts in a lot of effort. Those random stick up men that rob banks and convenience stores are not good representations of what a thief needs to be. A thief needs to be smart, cunning, and VERY observant.

So here I was. In the Butte train station. Observing. Every theft needs an opportunity. The opportunity needs to be perfect in order to not get caught. And I was lucky that today, the train station was crowded. Chaos makes it easier to escape if need be.

Then I catch sight of a tallish brown haired kid at the ticket window. Then I see it. He takes some cash out and puts it back in his pocket. Naive little bugger.

He checks his watch. Then he breaks into a run. It happens to be in my direction so I seize the opportunity. I position myself in the right spot and start walking quickly in a straight line. The collision is inevitable. He hurries off without giving an apology. But that's okay because he gave me something better.

I open the brown, plain looking wallet. Over a hundred and fifty dollars in cash. And a student I.D.

I smirk.

"Nice doing business with you, Freddie Benson."

* * *

**Reviews are the BOMB! So go ahead. Drop one on me. **


	10. My Death and Resurrection

**IDOI**

** The chapter names were inspired by the way the show Scrubs labels their episodes. I thought it was a good idea because it's in first person POV.**

* * *

_For some ridiculous reason, I feel like I am invincible. I feel as though I have the power to defeat the mighty Samantha Puckett. And before I can stop myself, I tear her down. "No. See, Sam, that's all you can do. Bully. Bully and be mean to people. I've had enough of it. Everyone's had enough of it. We all know it's an act. Sooner or later everyone leaves you. Everyone deserts you. Jonah, Pete, your Dad. You keep bringing up that my mom is insane. Well, at least she __**cares**__ about me. When was the last time your mom cooked you a nice warm dinner? Face it, Puckett. You're all alone in this world. So you build up walls. An act. You make yourself a tough girl. You bully and distance yourself because you don't want to feel pain. Because you know sooner or later, they're all going to leave. Which is why you've been downright horrible to me. Carly and I have already received our college acceptance letters. Where's yours? You're afraid of being left behind again. So first you separate from me. Then later, Carly. You know what, Sam? Congratulations. You've done it. You've successfully destroyed whatever connection we had. I want you out of my life. Out. Never talk to me again. I'm fed up with you and your torture. Leave."_

_I finish. _

_Her eyes are brimming with hurt. She trembles._

_Then I see it. A tear. And as if time had slowed down, I see it leave the safety of its home. I see in travel down her paled cheek. I see it reach her jaw line. And I see it fall. I follow it. Down, down, down. Until it reaches the ground. It makes a barely audible splash. _

_And my heart breaks. I realize what I have done and I can't breathe. The guilt quickly fills my body. I gather what little feeling I have left to raise my head...just in time to see a fist heading toward my face. And before it makes contact,_

_I dodge it._

_I grab her wrist. And I hear myself whisper._

"_I'm sorry, Sam. I-I didn't mean it."_

_She glares at me, her eyes still shining with uncried tears. "I hate you."_

_She runs to the door and wrenches it open. "And I mean it."_

_I manage to grab the handle before the door slams shut. Bursting into the hallway, I see Sam's hair whip around the corner._

"_Sam, wait!"_

_I run after her. I hear the sound of shoes against metal so I know she's taking the stairs. But as I reach the door to the stairwell, I trip. The ground rushes up to meet my face. My arm lashes out to break the fall. A pain shoots through my wrist but I ignore it and stand up. I clamber down the steps, taking two or three at a time. Her footsteps are non-existent so I know she's probably already out the door. When I reach the lobby, the front door is closing and Lewbert's screaming "No fleeing in the lobby." I'm halfway across the room before I feel a hand come down on my shoulder. I turn to see Lewbert with fire in his eyes. He shakes me roughly._

"_WAKE UP, KID! I GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE! WAKE UP!"_

And I wake up. To see the businessman standing over me with fire in his eyes. He shakes my shoulder again.

"Wake up! I'm going to be late for my meeting!"

I scramble out of my seat, embarrassed.

"Sorry, sir."

He glares as he passes me. "You should be, punk."

I stare as he walks down the aisle and gets off the train. _How am I a punk?_ I look down at my clothing. Jeans and a gray collared shirt. I check my reflection. My hair is a little ruffled but still quite neat. _Maybe the definition of punk varies from person to person. No matter. At least __**I**__ know that I'm not actually a punk._

My stomach growls as I step off the train. I don't feel hungry but I know that I need to keep my energy up in order to continue. So I head towards a McJaggers. As I get nearer, the smell of grilled meat emanates from the entrance causing my stomach to growl even louder. I sigh and wonder how much money it'll take to tame the wild beast.

I reach into my right jacket pocket for my wallet. My stomach clenches. It's not there. I chuckle to myself. _It's probably in my left pocket._ So I reach into my left pocket. Only to feel nothing except stray pieces of lint. A vise like grip encircles my chest squeezing the air out of my lungs. I rush over to a bench and desperately search through my backpack. Every second the grip grows tighter. I look through every section, every pocket, every nook and cranny of my backpack. Nothing. I start to suffocate. The sounds of the station fade away, almost as if a pillow had been pressed over my head. The image of the Butte train station flashes through my head. And I see myself running and colliding with another person. A man. Black hair, brown jacket. And I see him reach into my pocket and I see him take my wallet. I keep running. He laughs.

I grab my backpack and I run towards the sign that points to the restrooms, blindly pushing through groups of commuters. Bursting through the door, I dash to the sink. I quickly turn the knob and splash water on my face. The shock of the cold causes me to gasp and, suddenly, I can breathe again. I take four or five deep breaths. And somewhere in between those breaths, I begin to cry. My tears mingle with the water trickling down my face. The sounds of my sobs echo through the empty room. I hunch over the cold, ceramic sink. I can't go on. It's impossible. I don't have any money and I'm not even halfway there. I've failed.

I look up. The mirror shows a tear-streaked seventeen year old with red eyes and ashen skin. I feel ashamed. I thought I had changed. I thought that going on this journey would make me stronger. But I was wrong. I'm still the same, weak, naive Freddie I once was. The light flickers and now the mirror shows the thief. Laughing, pointing, holding my wallet in his dirty fingers. I feel angered. That someone would steal from a kid, but also that I would be so careless as to not pay attention in the first place. The light flickers. I see Carly with her furious expression telling me to get out. The light keeps flickering and I see my mother, I see Spencer, I see Martha, Donny, the businessman, everyone I had ever known. I see them all. The light flickers again. The mirror shows Sam, a tear sliding down her cheek. I watch as the tear falls. Down, down, down. It splashes into the sink. I jerk my head up to see my face with a single tear track down my cheek. Then I realize. Sam's tears are my tears. Her face is my face. She is me. All of them are. They're all me. And I'm all of them. They all made me who I am.

And I realize.

I'm the same, weak, naive Freddie. But I'm also Carly's intelligence, my mother's passion, Spencer's creativity, Martha's wisdom, Donny's kindness, even the businessman's sense of urgency. I am Gibby's confidence, Wendy's knowledge, Principal Franklin's generosity, Mrs. Puckett's freedom, Lewbert's hatred, and, dare I say it, Mrs. Briggs' anger. And most of all, I am Sam's strength. The strength she never knew she had.

So there is a way to complete this journey and save Sam. I'm not going to do it. **We** are going to do it.

I take a deep breath and I wash my face, each of my movements becoming faster and faster. I pick up my backpack and leave the restroom feeling better than I did when I went in.

**We **are getting to New York. No matter what.

* * *

**If anyone is confused by the "strength she never knew she had" line, Sam pretended to have strength when in reality she thought she didn't. But Freddie thinks that she had strength in order to live like she did.**

***Gets down on one knee and takes out ring***

**"Will you review me?" **


	11. Her Son

**IDOI**

**So this is from a different POV than Freddie's and it's not current. It's about three or four days behind Freddie's, so I made it 3rd person past tense.**

* * *

She woke up at exactly 6:30 every day. Today was no different. She slipped on a clean, white robe and headed to the bathroom. For two minutes, she brushed her teeth, making sure every crevice was scrubbed. She washed her face with 's Extra-Strong Cleansing Soap, the only soap that kills 100% percent of germs.

Then she headed toward the kitchen to start making breakfast for her son. A nice healthy breakfast completely void of fats, sugars, and artificial ingredients. Freddie might have disliked the bad tasting food, but that was understandable. He was only a child. He didn't know what it was like to see kids come into the hospital with serious cases of high blood pressure, obesity, or malnutrition. He might have thought she was crazy for being overly cautious, but she was willing to be criticized. She cared too much for him to do otherwise.

As she flipped the pancakes, she thought about how Freddie had been acting lately. She had noticed him spending a lot more time at home in his room. For the first couple days, it was nice. She thought he had realized how dangerous the outside world was and decided to be safe and stay indoors. But as the days turned into weeks, she got worried. He even rejected his acceptance to Stanford which made her angry to no end, but nevertheless, worried. Then after the first month was over, the dreams started.

_The microphone she had hidden under his bed was only there for emergencies. So when she heard him shouting in the middle of the night, she jumped out of bed and was in his room in a flash. Expecting to see some type of wild animal attacking Freddie, she was surprised to see him twisting and turning under the covers. She strode over to his bedside and was about to wake him up when she heard a name in the middle of all the yells. _

"_Sam."_

_She gasped and retracted her hand, listening to the nearly incomprehensible gibberish that was streaming out of her son's mouth. She only caught a few words: "bully", "alone", "walls", "pain", and "leave"._

_And after this last word tumbled out of his mouth, Freddie fell deathly still. She stared at him for a few seconds before quickly running out of his room and shutting the door. _

_She didn't go back to sleep that night._

_The next day, she talked to Spencer. She had never seen the artist so morose. He told her about her son and Sam and Carly's letter._

_But he was wrong about one thing. In a slightly angry tone, he talked about how Freddie got what he finally wanted and how he must have been happy._

_But she knew better._

Her attention returned to the pancakes. She decided three were enough for a growing boy so she plated them and moved to pouring the milk. She set everything up on their kitchen table and checked the clock. 7:24. If Freddiekins didn't wake up soon, he was going to be late to his English class at the Seattle Community College. She left the kitchen and began the short trip to his room.

She opened his door and walked in, expecting her son to be buried beneath the covers.

He wasn't. Instead there was a photo and an envelope on his pillow. With shaking hands, she picked up the picture.

It was of him and Carly. The edge was torn where Sam was supposed to be. She knew this because it was she that had taken the picture so many years ago.

_Sam...wait. No..._

She grabbed the envelope and ripped it open. Screw paper cuts. She feverishly read the letter, her eyes moving back and forth like a Kit-Cat clock.

When she finished, the paper dropped from her hands as she rushed to the phone.

Who cares about Sam . . .

Her baby was out there.

* * *

The man was reclining in his arm chair, feet on his desk, a bottle of mineral water in his hand. What? Not every private eye is an alcoholic.

The phone rang and he leaned forward to answer it, grumbling about his lack of a receptionist. Times were hard so he had to save as much as he could.

"Carl Hanratty, Private Eye."

"Hello? This is Marissa Benson. Remember me? You tracked down my son when he went missing in the park?"

"Ah, of course. By the way, did that Venezuelan doctor do the job?"

"Yes, yes. But Freddie had to get the chip removed. He took a Spanish class in school and they said it was cheating."

"What a shame. Well, what can I do for you?"

"Freddie went missing again."

"And you want me to find him?"

"Yes. I already notified the authorities, but they said they won't start looking until after the 48 hour mark. I wanted someone to get on it right away so I called you. If you find him, I'll pay you double what I paid last time."

Carl nearly fell from his seat.

"Really? Ok- then, alright, I'll do it," he rummaged through his desk for a pen. "When did you say he left?"

"Today. Sometime during the night."

He scribbled the information in his note pad.

"Any idea where he's headed?"

"No idea. But I know he's looking for a girl. Samantha Puckett. She went missing five months ago."

He muttered as he wrote it down. "Samantha...Puckett...missing...five..months... Alright then, any more information?"

"Find him. My baby needs his mommy."

She hung up.

Carl shook his head.

"Nut case."

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**Step 1: Read.**

**Step 2: Review.**

**Step 3: Rinse.**

**Step 4: Repeat.**


	12. My Deliverer

**IDOI**

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I wish the weather would make up its mind. I'm being buffeted by what feels like gale force winds, and yet the sun is shining bright, teasing me with its unreachable warmth. Another gust blows and I shiver. My jacket does nothing save for making me look like the most stylish person to ever walk on I90.

Half an hour after setting foot to pavement, I'm regretting ever leaving the relative safety of the station. With plenty of free space and inconsistant patrols, cars whip past producing sounds akin to NASCAR races. There is no civilization in sight. The scene plays over and over in my head. I see myself getting hit by careless driver. I see the emergency calls being made, only for the ambulances to say they'll arrive in about 30 minutes. Then I see myself dying due to spectacularly serious wounds in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by people I don't know.

I shake my head. I have got to stop doing that.

Pessimism is not the way to go.

Another hour passes in the blink of an eye. The pavement starts to blur and my feet begin to hurt. I don't know how many miles I've covered. But I don't care. Because when I look into the distance, all I see is an infinite stretch of gray. I start thinking about the hopelessness of it all; about how I'll never reach New York.

But I don't slow down. I know these traitorous thoughts are only entering my head because there's nothing else to do. I'm complaining for the sake of complaining. I reach into my pocket and take out Sam's picture. I take a deep breath and I plod on, a little faster than before.

Motivation is the key.

60 minutes is both an eternity and a second. Even after walking for miles, it seems like no time has passed. I wouldn't have noticed had not the sun started to set. Panic sets in. There are still no buildings in sight. I have seen some signs pointing out cities, but I passed them all. A not so smart decision.

So, being stuck on an interstate with night coming, I stick out my thumb. Hitch-hiking seems like a scary idea to me. I had watched movies and TV shows where all the character does is walk backwards with their thumb out and a friendly face stops and picks them up. But I had also watched movies and TV shows where the character gets picked up and then is chopped into bit sized pieces by a hungry psychopath. I shove this frightening thought to the back of my mind.

Desperation is a strong motivator.

The sun hits the horizon, throwing a collage of pink, red, yellow, and orange across the sky. My shadow stretches out in front of me, giving the illusion that I was a giant, when I had never felt so small in my life. I had given up my attempt to hitch a ride. Maybe nobody wants to-

A car screeches to a halt in front of me. For a moment, I stare in disbelief. Then I run to the car before the driver can change his mind. I look in through the window and see a balding man in his late forties. On the dash, he has a picture of a nice looking lady and a couple children. This is enough for me to deem him safe. I open the door and jump in.

"Thank you so much. I thought I was going to be walking all night."

He gives me a curious look before nodding. We take off.

"So where you headed?" He asks.

I chuckle nervously. "As far east as you're going."

He nods, but this time, his mouth tightens in a thin line.

A few minutes later, my stomach growls, signaling my negligence. He glances at me and then he reaches into the back and procures bucket of fried chicken.

"This is your dinner. I can't possibly—"

He looks at me sternly. "Eat it."

"Thank you."

I ferociously tear into the delicious meat. Out of the corner of my eye, I get a glimpse of a sign.

Glendive: 200 mi.

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**So now we know Freddie's next destination. We got a taste of Freddie hitching a ride. I figured he'd be kinda paranoid. **

** Trbore, [;rsdr. (Review, please.)**


	13. My Wanted Face

**IDOI**

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_Her eyes are brimming with hurt. She trembles._

_Then I see it. A tear. And as if time had slowed down, I see it leave the safety of its home. I see in travel down her paled cheek. I see it reach her jaw line. And I see it fall. I follow it. Down, down, down. Until it reaches the ground. It makes a barely audible splash. _

_And my heart breaks. I realize what I have done and I can't breathe. The guilt quickly fills my body. I gather what little feeling I have left to raise my head...just in time to see a fist heading toward my face. And before it makes contact,_

_I dodge it._

_I grab her wrist. And I hear myself whisper._

"_I'm sorry, Sam. I-I didn't mean it."_

_She glares at me, her eyes still shining with uncried tears. "I hate you."_

_She runs to the door and wrenches it open. "And I mean it."_

_I manage to grab the handle before the door slams shut. Bursting into the hallway, I see Sam's hair whip around the corner._

"_Sam, wait!"_

_I run after her. I hear the sound of shoes against metal so I know she's taking the stairs. But as I reach the door to the stairwell, I trip. The ground rushes up to meet my face. My arm lashes out to break the fall. A pain shoots through my wrist but I ignore it and stand up. I clamber down the steps, taking two or three at a time. Her footsteps are non-existent so I know she's probably already out the door. When I reach the lobby, the front door is closing and Lewbert's screaming "No fleeing in the lobby." I'm halfway across the room before I feel a hand come down on my shoulder. I turn to see Lewbert with fire in his eyes. He shakes me roughly._

"_I SAID NO—"_

_I punch him in face and he staggers backwards. As he tries to regain equilibrium, I exit out the door, pounding down the sidewalk, looking, hoping I would catch a glimpse of her blonde hair disappearing around the corner._

_There! A flash of yellow. I duck into an alley way to head her off at the next street. The light at the other end of the alley grows brighter and brighter. I'm almost there. I take the last few steps._

_Then a man wearing a suit appears from the shadows._

"_The president announced his new proposal for the energy shortage to today. Joining us is White House correspondent—"_

"—Russel Lee. Good morning, Russel."

I slowly open my eyes, allowing them to adjust to the massive amount of light streaming in through the windows. Sitting up on the couch, I yawn and stretch, shaking the stiffness from the day before out of my limbs. I look around to see a pair of big blue eyes staring at me. These eyes are attached to a blonde girl of about 13-14 years of age. She then realizes I'm awake. A faint blush dusts her cheeks as she returns to watching the news.

"Good morning, Freddie."

I twist around to see Charlie in an armchair with a mug of coffee and a newspaper. I feel a rush of thanks toward this almost absolute stranger. Without him, I would still be hungry and on the road.

"Good morning, sir. I can't thank you enough for letting me stay here for the night. You really saved me back there."

He nods. "Don't mention it."

I look around the living room.

"Excuse me, sir, but do you happen to know where my backpack is?"

Charlie gestures towards the corner where my blue and black bag is slumped against the wall with my jacket folded next to it.

"It's over there. I hope you don't mind, but I went through your things. I had to make sure you weren't carrying anything that could hurt my family."

"Of course, sir. I understand. But don't worry. I'm not one of those people. I can't even crush a spider without feeling guilt."

"I believe you." He quickly folds up his paper, stands up and walks across the room to a door. Before he goes through, he turns around. "I'm going to make some breakfast. I'll call you when it's ready."

I nod. He closes the door behind him, only to poke his head out a second later.

"By the way, I may believe you aren't a bad kid, but you're still a guest in my house." He nods his head towards the girl who had resumed staring at me. "That there's my daughter Emily. She's 14. Stay away from her."

He retracts his head and the door closes with a click.

Emily is again watching the news. Her face is now a bright red. An awkward silence fills the room. I am tempted to keep it like that, but then the new Freddie takes over.

"Hi, I'm Freddie."

She smiles shyly at me. "I'm Emily."

"Nice to meet you, Emily."

She giggles for no apparent reason.

"Nice to meet you too, Freddie."

Another silence settles over the room. Desperate to break it, I ask, "So why are you watching the news?"

She groans and leans her head back, staring at the ceiling. "School project. I have to watch the news and write a report on any interesting stories. It's torture."

Glad that she's talking freely, I continue the conversation. "Oh, c'mon, school's fun."

She looked at me skeptically. "Really? How old are you? 50?"

I snort. "No, I'm 17. But I can still think school is fun."

She shakes her head. "How can school be fun? The teachers are always out to get you, the homework is cruel and unusual, and you're stuck inside a prison for 7 hours."

"Okay, school isn't necessarily _fun_, but it's not that bad. I mean, you get to talk to your friends, learn new things, be away from your parents . . . and you have a chance to do something with your future."

"I guess . . ."

"School isn't hell. It's more of a purgatory."

She rolls her eyes. "And that makes it so much better."

"Yes. Yes, it does."

She stares at me. Then she bursts into laughter. "Y-you're such a n-nerd!"

I smile. "I try my best."

She doesn't stop laughing.

"Um . . . come on, it's not that funny."

Her laughter dies down.

"Sorry, it's just that you're just so . . . dorkish."

I raise my eyebrows. "Is that a problem?"

She grins. "No."

"Then what's so amusing."

"It's just that I've never met anyone like you before. All the guys in my school seem to be only interested in sports and cars and girls. Some of them even beat up nerds to be 'cooler'. To them, school is something to be hated. And you, a 17-year-old guy, is talking to me about how school is good for me. It's just so bizarre."

I for a second I feel hurt. But then she adds, "But I think I'm being convinced."

"Good. Now don't you have a project to do?"

The smile fell off Emily's face. "Aw, why'd you have to remind me?"

"I thought you said you were being convinced?"

"Yeah, but just because school is good for me, doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Point taken."

We settle down and watch a little more of the news. In the middle of an intense debate about foreign policy, Emily mutters something incromprehensible.

"What?"

She speaks a little louder. "Why are you here?"

"What do you mean by here?"

"Here. My house."

"Your house?"

Emily faces me, exasperated. "My dad said he found on the side of the road. Why were you on the side of the road? Why are you here? Where are you going? I can ask a billion different ways. Look, what's your purpose?"

I sigh. "Do you really want to know?"

She nods vigorously.

"Okay." I get up and walk to my folded jacket. Taking out the picture of Sam, I return to the couch. I hand Emily the picture and I prepare for the subsequent interrogation.

"She's my purpose."

Emily stares at the picture. "She's pretty."

"Yep."

"What's her name?"

"Sam."

"Is she your girlfriend?"

"No."

"What do you mean when you say that she's your purpose?"

I squirm uncomfortably on the couch. "Are you sure you don't want to ask any more easy questions?"

"No. I want to know."

I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts. "Long story short, I was angry, said some things, she ran away, I found out I'm in love with her, and I'm going to New York to find her, hoping I can work it out."

Emily is speechless. For a second.

"You idiot."

She leans forward and slaps me.

"OW! What the heck!"

She starts to punch me.

"You friggin' idiot."

Then she hugs me.

"You friggin' romantic idiot."

She lets me go. I see tears in her eyes. Needless to say, I'm confused.

"Um . . . what just happened?"

"Well, I hit you because you were a jerk. Then I hugged you because you're so sweet."

"Jerk? Sweet? I'm pretty sure those are opposite things."

"No, look, first you broke her heart, but then you realized your mistake and now you're trying to fix it. By sacrificing everything and travelling across the country. It's so romantic. It's like a Nicholas Sparks novel."

"Oh no, don't mention him. Why him?"

"Does she know you're in love with her?"

"No."

She squeals happily and I cringe. "Freddie, you're a living love story." Then she looks down sadly. "I wish I could write about you for the report, but you're not on the news."

"Yeah, well—"

_No fucking way._

Emily looks up to see what had interrupted me. Her eyes grow wide.

"Freddie, is that . . ."

"Yeah."

It's me. On the news. The reporter begins to talk.

"There is still no sign of Fredward Benson, the teen who went missing from Seattle 5 days ago. The police are making their way further and further out from Washington, expanding the circle of their search. Currently, all newspapers within the western United States are printing pleads for any information on the whereabouts Fredward. The boy's mother, Marissa Benson, had reported him as a runaway to the authorities immediately after the morning of his disappearance and she has even hired a private investigator to track her son down. She said she will do anything to get her son back. So if anyone has seen Fredward, please call the number at the bottom of the screen."

My mouth drops in incredulity. _My mom sent the authorities after me? And a private investigator? Even after I wrote her that letter? Unbelievable. Why can't she just let things go? I mean, Jesus Christ._

Emily breaks in on my doubts about my mother's sanity.

"Fredward? Your real name is Fredward? What kind of a name is Fredward?"

I frown. "That's all you got from that? Hello, I'm on the NEWS. Everyone's going to see that!"

"This is great. Now I can write about your story." She happily picked up a notebook from the coffee table. I grab her shoulders and shake her roughly.

"This is serious! If I get caught, there will be no story to write. I won't make it to New York. I'll never talk to Sam ever again! You have to help me."

Emily drops her notebook. "Fine, fine. But let's wait until after breakfast. I'm kinda—Oh, man."

A worried look crosses her face.

"What?"

She glances at the door to the kitchen.

"Did you notice how long it's been since my dad went in there? Breakfast doesn't take that long to cook."

I suddenly realize what she was trying to say.

"Didn't they say they printed my story in the newspapers? Your dad had a newspaper."

We stare at each other in dismay.

Emily tries to rescue to the situation.

"Look, we don't know he knows your story. Maybe he dropped all the eggs or something. All we have to do is listen through the door and if it sounds like he's still making breakfast, you're still safe."

"Easy enough."

So we tip-toe to the kitchen door and press our ears to the wood.

". . . last night on I90. Yes. Yes. Yes, he was completely alone. Mm hm. Yes. He's still in the living room. Or course. Glad I could be of assistance."

Emily grabs my wrist and pulls me away from the door.

In a hushed voice, she says, "We have to get you out of here. Now."

I nod and I quickly run to the corner to grab my backpack and jacket, tucking Sam's photo safely back into my pocket. She gestures for me to follow her. After going through a series of hallways, we wind up in the garage. Emily pushes me towards a mountain bike.

"Take my brother's bike. It's not a road bike, but it's the best bike we have."

I adjust the straps on my bag and I swing my leg over my getaway vehicle. I feel a paper being forced into my hand.

Emily whispers, "It's my number. Call me when you find her, okay? Okay. Now I'm going to open the garage door. My dad's going to hear the noise, so as soon as it's high enough, you have to ride like you've never ridden before. Okay? Okay."

She walks to a button on the wall, while I position myself in front of the door.

"Are you ready?"

I hesitate. "Wait."

"What?" She hisses.

"Thanks."

Her face softens. "You're welcome."

Emily hits the button.

The door goes up.

I hear running footsteps inside the house.

But before Charlie reaches the garage . . . I'm gone.

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**This chapter is quite important because now Freddie knows he's being hunted and the police have a lead.**

**Review. For the children . . .**


	14. My Mystery Inc

**I don't own any TV shows.**

**This chapter is different. **

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Carl wandered into The Roadside Diner, eyes drooping from a night of dead ends. He was tired, achy, and pretty sure he looked like something that had crawled out of a 50s horror movie. His usually clean shaven face and healthy complexion had reduced to stubble and a sickly pale pallor. Freddie Benson was proving to be a tough case. The kid moved fast. Carl felt like Mrs. Benson had underestimated the real-world abilities of her "baby".

The restaurant was nearly empty so he chose a window booth. Wincing at the pain, he collapsed on to the fake red leather bench. Sometimes he thought he was too old for this job. It certainly wasn't as easy as it used to be. The running, the chasing, the sub-par eating establishments, the long endless hours, and the cold lonely nights; it was getting too much for a 45 year old man like him.

When he was young, Carl had always dreamt of life as a detective. Every Saturday morning, instead of watching cartoons like other kids, he strayed around his suburban neighborhood, combing the streets for lost items of importance. If he happened upon one, he challenged himself to find the owner and return the object by the end of the day. Carl always loved the thrill of a search. It used logic and critical thinking and he, being enamored with math, had plenty of both. And the sense of accomplishment when he solved the case had always rescued him from the doldrums of even the longest investigations.

But maybe he had to stop somewhere Carl told himself. He had silently cradled the idea of settling down. It was tempting, to say the least. Settling down meant hot baths every day and nice meals every night. But part of him was reluctant to let go of the freedom that came with the career. Carl had been doing this for about 25 years. And not once during those 25 years had he been restricted of his liberties. He came and went as he pleased. He made his own decision. No one told him what to do.

"Excuse me, sir." An impatient voice startled him out of self-reflection. He looked up to see a brunette of about 30 holding a memo pad. Her name tag read "Betty".

"Yes?"

"Sir, you've been looking at that menu for the past 10 minutes. Have you decided what to order?"

Carl looked down at his hands which were indeed holding a menu. He must have been zoned out because he never remembered picking it up.

"Oh. Sorry," he said. He chose a number at random. "I'll have a #12. With coffee."

A quick scribble and she was gone with the menu. Carl sighed, wondering what in the hell he had ordered. He decided it was out of his hands now. There was no use worrying. There are more important things to be thought over.

He opened his briefcase and took out a notebook.

Freddie Benson: the kid with the domineering mother.

Carl almost felt sorry for the unfortunate teen. He's probably been shut up for most of his life. And the moment he runs away, his mom hires a P.I.

Carl looked over the list of basic facts.

Freddie Benson

DOB: 10/4/94

Sex: Male

Eyes: Brown

Hair: Brown

Weight: 138 lbs.

Height: 5'11"

There was a picture paper clipped in next to the list. Carl sighed knowing that the police were having a tough time getting valid information. Freddie seemed to be average in every field. There must be millions of brown haired, brown eyed boys with the same weight and height. The only possibly way for Freddie to be identified was for someone to get a close look at his face which they would match to any newspaper.

He continued to the information on Freddie's disappearance. Several specific items had caught his well-trained eye when he started. These were highlighted.

-Looking for Sam Puckett-

Carl snorted. He reasoned that the first thing Freddie would do was talk to Sam's mom. Carl followed in Freddie's footsteps, hoping to uncover where Freddie's destination lay. Carl remembered his nearly disastrous meeting with the girl's mother. The older Puckett had been semi-drunk. When she answered the door, she recognized him as a stranger, but she allowed him in on the grounds that he tell her his name. And tell her he did. After accepting a martini and declining several offers of calling her Liz, Carl cut to the chase. He asked her if a boy with Freddie's descriptions had ever dropped in.

Somewhat creepily, Mrs. Puckett's eyes lit up. She replied that indeed a "smokin' hot brunette with sexy eyes and a body to match" had asked her where her daughter went. Carl leaned forward, eagerly awaiting her to continue. She said that her daughter had gone to New York a long time ago.

New York. That was where the boy was headed. He thanked the still rambling blonde and dashed out of the house. The boy was somewhere in between here and New York. He ran to the nearest bookstore to get a map.

-Very smart-

Carl now knew this opinion to be a fact. Mrs. Benson wasn't exaggerating when she said her Freddie-bear was a sharp one. So far, it hadn't looked like he had stopped anywhere in the past couple days. The kid had probably decided to get out as quickly as he could. It made it harder to track someone when they constantly moved and never left a trace. Also, Freddie was using cash. There was no electronic paper trail that private investigators usually took advantage of to track spending.

-Never been in serious trouble-

Carl found this to be a useful fact. It meant that Freddie was above stealing, mugging, and other criminal acts. That made it easier because running away is rather hard to cover up if you have to stay on the straight and narrow path.

"Here you are." Betty set down a platter that had 4 eggs over-easy, 2 slices of bacon, 2 sausages, 4 pieces of toast, and a heaping bunch of potatoes. "The Macho Man breakfast; created for the hungry traveler."

Carl couldn't believe his luck. He chose randomly and this is what he got?

_Maybe I should choose randomly every time._

He thanked Betty and started to put away all his papers.

Suddenly, a manicured finger jabbed down and pinned the basic facts page to the table.

"Wait, I've seen that kid before," she said suspiciously. "What are you doing with his picture? You some kind of stalker?"

Carl was speechless.

"You've seen this kid before?"

The waitress rolled her eyes. "Yes, I just said that. Now answer my question. What are you doing with his picture?"

Carl hastily stood up. "Ma'am, I am a private investigator," he handed her his business card. "I was hired to track down a missing child from Seattle."

"Missing child?"

"Yes. And it so seems that the child in question is probably the same child that you have encountered-," he paused, "please, take a seat."

She backed away. "I'm sorry but I'm working right now and—"

"Ma'am, this is a serious issue that needs to be resolved right away. If your employer has any objection to your cooperation with my case, I will handle it. Now please take a seat."

Betty sat down and folded her hands nervously.

Carl slid Freddie's picture forward. "Now, you said you saw this boy, did you not?"

Betty nodded. "Yes. I did see him."

"Are you certain?"

"Betty nodded again. "I talked to him."

"You ta—what did he say?"

"Well, he asked me what the cheapest way to get to Butte was."

Carl dug out the map. Unfolding it, he asked her, "And what did you say?"

"I told him to take a bus or a train."

Carl traced the path with his finger, muttering to himself. Out loud he said, "Hm, yes, of course. Did he tell you why he wanted to go to Butte?"

She shook her head.

"I asked him but then Donny—he's a trucker that often eats here—interrupted and offered to take the kid for free."

His head jerked up. "Trucker?"

"Yeah, so the kid went with him."

"Can you describe this trucker?"

Betty narrowed her eyes in thought.

"Well, he kind of big . . . like a football player, he's about 6 feet tall, he has red hair, and he talks in a deep voice. Oh, and he's hopelessly addicted to fat cakes."

Carl was scribbling this down in his pad. "Interesting."

He looked up. "When did all this take place?"

Betty closed her eyes. "I think it was 1—no, 2 days ago, I think . . . yeah, 2 days ago."

Carl was ecstatic. That meant he wasn't that far away after all.

"I am sincerely grateful for your aid, Ma'am."

He began arrange his papers.

"This information is very important. You have seriously helped my case."

Betty hesitated before asking, "Do you know why he wanted to go to Butte? I'm assuming he ran away, right? Because you said he was a missing child from Seattle and yet he was alone heading to Butte. It doesn't seem like he was kidnapped. So he probably ran away."

Carl was slightly impressed. "Yes, he did run away. And I'm sorry but I can't disclose any information. Client privacy and all that."

A look of disappointment flashed across her face. "Oh. Okay then."

He felt a flash of guilt for not giving her anything in return for her information.

_Hmm. Maybe I can..._

He stood up. "I'd like to pay for my meal please."

Betty looked confused. "But you haven't eaten anything."

Carl shook his head. "Thank the cook for making it, but I have to go. My case has to be followed straigh away."

"Alrighty then."

She led him to the cash register. "Your total comes to $10.17."

He took out his wallet and removed a bill.

"Here. Keep the change as your tip."

Carl strode out of the building.

Things were finally starting to look up.

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Inside the Roadside Diner, Betty was thinking. _What a strange man._

She unfolded the money that was in her hand.

She gasped.

The eyes of Benjamin Franklin twinkled as he stared at her from his lonely frame.

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**Since I can't come up with cool, creative poems like Pigwiz, I'll just have to settle with asking nicely.**

**Please, Review! **


	15. My Friend in Me

**I don't own iCarly.**

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**I desperately suck in breath after breath of steel cold air. It freezes my lungs and stabs at my throat but, at the same time, it feels so good. The sensation of weightlessness caused by the quick flow of oxygen to the brain is like a drug; so wonderfully bliss. My vision blurs. I lose track of my mind, only focusing on the air rushing in and the air rushing out. After hours of biking, stopping only for short bathroom breaks, the ability to think is second to the relief of finally being able to breathe again.

I rest my hands on my knees.

Maybe it wasn't so smart to run off without a plan. I should have asked for directions—my stomach growls—and breakfast. But then again, it could have only been a matter of time before the police knocked down the door.

Being angry at Charlie is surprisingly hard. I'm frustrated that he would report me without knowing my story, but at the same time, I understand he just did what he thought was right. I can't blame him for that. After all, my mom was hurt enough to hire a private investigator even though I'm doing what I think is the right thing.

My breaths die down and my sight becomes clear. I look around.

A gas station. I stopped here because there was a gas station. That means there will be food.

I take a couple eager steps towards the mini mart before I remember. I have no money.

A horrible sense of despair turns my blood into ice. My stomach growls and sinks to my knees in the beginnings of its death throes. Hunger had never really been a problem for me. My mother had always made sure I had enough to eat because I was her "big little Freddiekins." I never really felt what it was like to be very hungry. But now after about a day of having nothing to eat, I understand why hunger brings out the worst of people. It's painful.

So I take a few more less eager steps toward the mini mart. When I reach the window, I press my nose against the glass. I stare longingly at the rows upon rows of unhealthy junk food. It glows with the warmth of saturated fat. I can almost taste the nacho cheez Toritos through the glass. They call to me.

_Freddie...Freddie...eat us...just take one...eat us..._

No—wait, I can't just _take one_...that's stealing!

_Just do it...it's easy..._

NO. My mom said never to take what isn't yours.

_But you're hungry...you're hungry_

...well I **am** sorta hungry...

_Take one...just do it..._

"Take one." A voice sounds right next to my ear.

I jerk around, nearly smashing my head through the window. Dark green eyes stare directly into mine.

I shove the boy away.

"What the hell?"

He doubles over and starts laughing and backs a couple steps away.

"Dude, chill. I was just messin' with ya."

He straightens back up and I get a better look at him.

About the same age I was, he had messy, yet short, black hair. He wore black jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and a black jacket with a bunch of pockets. And he looked laid-back and relaxed. He had an air of indifference, like nothing could affect him in any way. In short, he looked like someone all the girls went crazy for, like someone I wanted to be.

A hand waves in front of my face.

"Hey, wake up. I know I'm hot but you're really starting to creep me out."

I shake my head and slap his hand away.

"What? No, I wasn't—"

"Just kiddin'. Man, what are you 50? You need to lighten up."

"Lighten—screw you. You have no right to just walk up to me and insult me."

I walk in the general direction of the road. But before I get too far, a hand grabs my arm and spins me around.

He looks apologetic. "Look, I'm sorry alright? That's just who I am. I can't not make jokes. It's impossible. It's like every time there's a serious situation, I try to make it better. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Anyways, I'm sorry. I serious."

I study him for a second. He does look like he's being sincere.

"Fine. Apology accepted."

He grins.

"Thanks. Well, let's start with introductions. I'm Gary Williams: adventurer extraordinaire."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Freddie Benson: runaway."

"Runaway? Cool."

"Sorta. What's adventurer extraordinaire supposed to mean?"

"I'm also a runaway. But I have no destination. Unlike you, am I right?"

"Yeah. I'm headed to New York."

Gary lets out a low whistle.

"Damn, that's pretty far."

"Tell me about it."

We both nod in agreement until things get a little awkward. A topic pops into my head, hopefully saving the conversation.

"So what was that whole 'take one' back there?"

His eyebrows rise.

"I thought you were hungry."

On cue, my stomach growls again.

"Hungry is an understatement."

"So if you're hungry why don't you get something to eat?"

I sigh.

"No money."

Gary steps closer and whispers in a conspiratorial voice, "I didn't say _buy_ something to eat. I said _get _something to eat."

I gasp. "So it was YOU! You were the voice!"

A look of confusion crosses his face. "What are you talkin' about?"

I foolishly realize that if he was the one talking, he wouldn't have been in my head. "Er, nevermind."

"Okay..."

"Wait, so you want me to steal?"

"Um, how else are you going to get food?"

"Maybe I can...beg?"

"Like an undignified dog. No, you're better than that."

"But stealing is low!"

"But it's better than begging. Stealing requires finesse, Freddie. A well made theft is sophisticated and very difficult. It's a skill."

"Yeah, but it's still a crime. I'm not about to break the law."

"No, it's only a crime if you get caught."

"So . . . what about all the people who get cuffed and taken away?"

"See, they got caught so that means they broke the law. I stole and I didn't get caught. That meant I never broke the law. So I wasn't arrested. It's all logic, Freddie."

"..."

"Look, I'll go in there and take something. If I don't get caught, there'll be no police. Which means I never broke the law."

I nod and watch as he casually strolls to the door and opens it. It makes a small ding sound due to the bell tied to the top. Gary props the door open with a folded up wad of paper and continues inside. He walks to what looks like the snack aisle, but he still keeps an eye on the cashier reading a magazine behind the counter. He stuffs some candy bars into his numerous pockets while not moving his upper body. I nervously check on the cashier who luckily doesn't notice anything. The black haired teen moves to the refrigeration units. Quickly and probably quietly, he opens the fridge door and takes out some cans of energy drink. His mission complete, he sneaks back out of the store.

Gary grins and gives me two thumbs up.

"See," he says when he gets close enough, "perfectly legal."

"I don't know..."

He groans exasperatedly.

"Fine, you'll do it at the next stop. This one doesn't have anything good anyways."

"Next stop?"

"Yeah. I'm coming with you to New York."

I feel grateful that I have a new friend to travel with. So far, it's been pretty lonely save for the random people I meet. Gary's the only person that offered to actually make the journey with me. Until a small fact brings me down.

"Um...I'm pretty sure we both can't fit on my bike."

Gary smirks. "Freddie, and here I thought you were smart. How do you think I get around."

He motions for me to follow him. He leads me to the parking lot behind the minimart.

A black 67 Mustang fastback. The setting sun glints off the shiny hood making the car glow in a halo of light like a god given gift. And its aggressive line make it look like it's still moving even though it's parked. I knew that this was the car to get us to New York.

"Yep. That's my ride."

We walk over and he unlocks the door.

"Well, get in."

I make my way to the passenger side, open the door, and get in. I sink into the black leather, the weight finally off my feet for the first time in a day.

"Feels good doesn't it?"

I mumble a yes.

He turns the ignition and the car purrs to life. We drive to the front of the gas station.

"Stay here while I get your bike."

Gary picks up Emily's brother's bike and with little trouble, he disassembles it into its basic parts. He carefully places them in the back and retakes his seat.

"Off we go."

After we're out on the open road, he offers me a candy bar.

"Here. You said you were hungry, right."

And as I'm chewing the nougat and caramel bar, I have to ask.

"Did you—"

"No. I didn't steal this car."

I question him with silence.

"It was my dad's. He gave it to me before he died."

**

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**

**And as of now 3/21/10 5:31 PM, this story has 300 reviews! A big thanks to all those who have been reviewing especially those who have been with me since the beginning. (You know who you are ;) It really means a lot because I have an average of about 21 reviews per chapter which is very, very outstanding on your part! So thank you again for that.**

**New Chapter has appeared!**

** Fight Run**

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	16. His Father

**I don't own iCarly.**

**It's been quite a while. A quick update because I suddenly found a little time.**

* * *

Once in a while, another pair of headlights speeds in the opposite direction, but for the most part, we're alone; an island of light in the middle of an ocean of dark. The quietly loud sound of the night air rushes past, surrounding the car in its peace. Road signs appear and disappear. White lines flash by.

And for the first time in the past few days, I am completely satisfied. It might be the companionship and loneliness combining to form a strange mix that fell somewhere in between. Or it might be the assuredness with which we were heading toward New York. Maybe even the fact that I just ate three candy bars and a pack of beef jerky and my stomach is full.

Or maybe even all three.

Gary starts to bob his head and begins whistling "We are the Champions" effectively transferring my train of thought to him.

"Hey."

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah?"

I hesitate for a moment before plowing onward. "What happened to your dad?"

"What?" He asks sharply. In the moonlight, I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel and I feel the car pick up a little speed. "My dad?"

Backpedaling to save the peacefulness of the atmosphere, I apologize. "I'm sorry. I forgot we just met. I just, I was just wondering. I'm sorry for bringing it up. Because you said the car—and your dad—I...I understand if you don't want to talk about it. I'm sorry."

I turn away, both embarrassed and guilty, cautiously watching his reflection in the window.

Gary takes a couple of slow, deep breaths. He relaxes in his seat though still keeping his eyes on the road.

"It's alright," he sighs, "I guess you would've wanted to know some time during this trip anyways. It's best to just get it over with now."

He closes his eyes for a brief second as if to brace himself. I feel a little bit guiltier for bringing it up. If he was comfortable with me knowing, he would have told me before.

Gary puts on a serious face.

"I...I killed my father."

I stared at him incredulously, unable to believe what I heard.

"W-what?"

A small smile slowly draws itself across his mouth. He lets out a soft chuckle.

"Just kidding."

"Whew!" I sigh with relief. "Because I thought—"

"Though it saddens and angers me that you would actually think I am capable of murdering someone. My father no less."

By now, I'm thinking this is strike two. One more and Gary will have me walking. Then once again, he breaks into a smile.

"Kidding. Again."

"You know, you have got to stop doing that."

"Eh, I can't help it. Remember what I told you? For some reason, situations just get to me. And I get tense. And then jokes just stream out of my mouth."

"Ah. Yes. You've mentioned that."

"Yeah. So...my father." He drums his fingers on the wheel. "My father...Well, first thing I learned about him was that he was never home a lot. He was there when I was born. He was there for Christmas. He was there for the 4th of July. There for every one of my birthdays. All the important days. But that was it. And I was little so I didn't notice and I didn't know. I always thought fathers usually showed up with a mountain of presents and a warm hug. I always thought they disappeared a couple days later. I thought that was how it worked. Then one day, my first grade class had a 'Bring Your Dad to School' day. I was the only one with an empty desk beside me. I thought he was going to show up. Like he always did. But he didn't. So I went home and I learned. My father was never around because he was too busy saving the world."

Raising my eyebrows, I ask, "Saving the world?"

"Yeah," he scoffs, "that's what my mother told me. As it turns out, we were loaded. When I was ten, I found out we had inherited a lot of money from my grandfather. But my father never spent a cent of that money on us. He was a philanthropist. My mother earned money as a lawyer while he travelled the world building orphanages, homeless shelters, schools, things like that. And he volunteered and worked in every place he built. Like my mother said 'he was saving the world.'"

I give a sad nod. "He sounds like a great guy. How much money did you say you inherited?"

"A lot. All of which went to charity or his projects." Gary sighs. "So life went on. Until my 14th birthday. I woke up because there was someone shouting in the driveway. It was my father in this car," he gestures around us, "saying 'Check out my new ride!' Over dinner, he said that one day that car was going to be mine. After I paid him $10,000."

"$10,000," I say disbelievingly, "Wow."

"Yup. He gives away bunches of money to everybody, but he can't give his son a car. He didn't even cut the price in half. He told me I had to have the full $10,000 by my 16th or else no car."

"Two years to make $10,000? That's like—"

"—$833.33 a month. I was fourteen. I asked him how in the hell was I supposed to get the money. I told him it was impossible. You know what he said? He said, 'Oh. So you don't want the car.'"

He laughs mirthlessly. "So I showed him. I worked my ass off. Lemonade stands, car washes, any odd job I could find. I even tried investing. By my 15th, I had around $3,000. I wasn't on schedule, but I was confident I could do it. It got easier as time passed. But eventually, my 16th came around and I was still $2,000 short. I was kissing my car good-bye. My father drives up that morning, gets out, and first thing he does is ask if I had the money. I said no. He asked me how much of it I did have. And when I told him, he laughed for 2 minutes straight. Then he tossed me the keys."

"What? He gave you the car anyways?"

"No, he said he wasn't giving it to me. He said I earned it. He said he never expected me to get the money. He expected me to try. I nearly cried."

I lean back in my seat and slap my hands on my knees. "So it was all just a test. What did you do with the money?"

Gary shakes his head. "He still wanted the money. Said it could buy a bunch of computers for his school in LA. He leaves and a week later I get a phone call from my father's assitant."

"_Hello?"_

"_Hello? Gary? It's Lou. Tell your mother I need to talk to her. It's important."_

_I ran to the office where my mother spent her afternoons. Not bothering to knock, I burst in. Papers flew and my mother spun around in her chair._

"_God! Gary, you scared me. Didn't I tell you to always—"_

"_It's Lou. He said it was important."_

_I handed the phone over and watched as her face first passed from shock, to anger, then to worry._

_She hung up._

"_Get your coat. Your father was shot."_

"In the same way that a school day goes by faster if you have a dentist appointment and slower if you're going to the movies, the plane ride was quick. I was dreading seeing my father. I kept imagining it was all fake, another test, a joke. But when we got to Room 345A, he was connected to so many machines."

_Lou stood up, a cliché hat in hand._

"_What happened?" My mother demanded._

_He answered. His voice was despondent. "It was in front of the shelter in San Francisco. We were about to get into the car. Some guy came out of the alley. He took out a gun. He asked us for all our money. He kept apologizing, saying he needed it. Henry told him it was okay. Henry told him to calm down. The guy got mad. After a couple minutes of just staring at him, Henry took out his wallet and threw it to the guy. T-Then...I-I don't know exactly what happened. There was a bang. Some running footsteps. I looked down and Henry was bleeding all over."_

"Three days. I sat next to him for three days, Freddie. The three worst days of my life. The fourth day, his finger twitched. His eyes opened. He was smiling. I wasn't."

"_Why the long face?"_

_I looked up at him and then back down._

"_The doctor came in a couple minutes ago...and...he said there, there are complications. I-I'm not sure, but it as something to do with your spine and your nervous system. A-And he said...you don't have a lot of time left."_

_He was silent. I looked up._

"_Father?"_

"_I was awake. I already know."_

_It was too much. I jump out of my seat._

"_THEN HOW CAN YOU JUST LAY THERE? Do something! Pay someone! Find a way! We have enough money."_

_My father shook his head. "I can't use the money. People need it."_

"_To hell with your people! You're a person too!"_

_Again, he was silent._

"_Forget it. If you want to die, then die. You can lay there. But I can't. I'm going to find the guy who did this. And he's going to pay."_

"I still can't believe I said that. To my own father. I told him to die Freddie. Well, I found out. When I came back, he was weaker than ever."

"_Kelly Larson. His name is Kelly Larson."_

"_I know."_

"_...Th—There you go again. How the hell do you know the guy who shot you."_

_He slowly blinked._

"_I met him at a shelter. Stopped by to get some food for his kids."_

_I sat down._

"_Kids?"_

"_Kelly has four kids. His wife left him three years after the last one was born. His oldest is 15. She takes care of the others while he works into the night to keep their house. He told me he doesn't want to live in a shelter. He lost so much already. He doesn't want his kids to see him lose again."_

"_So? Does that make it right to shoot you?"_

"_No, but I understand. Bad situations bring out the worst in people. Which is why I want you to leave him alone. He's a good guy. He knows what he did was wrong. He just fell on hard times is all."_

"_He shoots you and you want me to let him go. You're going to die and you're letting him go."_

"_Yes. I would gladly sacrifice my life to give a man and his kids another chance."_

_I put my head in my hands._

"_Then what about my father. What if I don't want to sacrifice him?"_

"_Son, it's not your choice to make."_

_I gave a frustrated groan."It's not right, Father. It's not right."_

"_Sometimes it's not about what's right. It's about what's right for others."_

_

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_**I remember talking with Axel100 about my OC's story and what it could bring to the table a long time ago, so a thanks to him for that.**

**And there are a lot of great stories out there. My ABSOLUTE favorites are on My favorites. Which should double as a favorite author list. So you should check out their work because they are completely awesome.**

**Please review!**


	17. My Philosophy

**IDOI**

**So another update. Kind of short. I hope you like it. I was hurrying to finish this before the weekend because I have a lot of obligations to fulfill. Seriously. My weekend is ruined.**

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A bell dinged as Carl walked into his 7th gas station. He was combing the outskirts of Butte, an industrial zone where hundreds of trucks drove through every day. He had been questioning the attendants and had reviewed all the security tapes. So far, all he had gotten for his trouble was a big heaping load of nothing.

Looking around, he saw that the attendant was watching what looked like a soap opera on a small TV set. Carl strode purposefully toward the bearded man.

"Hello."

The attendant glanced up. In a polite, but tired voice, he asked, "How can I help you, sir?"

"I would appreciate it if you answer some questions for me," Carl peered at his name tag, "Eddie."

The man narrowed his eyes. "If you're selling something, I'm not buying it. Sir."

He took out a photo of Freddie. "No, I was wondering if you had seen this child."

"Oh, that's the kid that went missing from Seattle a couple days ago right?"

"Yes, have you seen him or do you have any information regarding his disappearance?"

"Why? Did he come through here?"

Carl nodded curtly. "I have reason to believe so."

Eddie shrugged. "Well, no, I haven't seen him. Sorry, sir."

"Hmm." Carl whipped out his notebook. Turning through the pages, he continued his investigation.

"Truckers do stop here frequently, correct?"

"Correct."

"Have you ever come in contact with a red-haired trucker?"

"N—actually...yes. I have. In fact, two of them just came through here a couple days ago."

Carl perked up with interest. "Do you remember exactly how many days ago?"

"Let's see...I think it was about 2 days ago. What did the trucker do? Did he kidnap the kid?"

"No, the child hitched a ride with him. Do you have surveillance footage?"

"Yes. But they're in black and white."

"That's fine."

Eddie led Carl past rows of snacks to a room in the back. After opening the door, he flipped a switch and a dusty light bulb filled the small room with a dim glow. Boxes were stacked and labeled with various dates. Against the wall opposite the door, there was a desk on which there were two TV's hooked up to two tape players. Two folding chairs completed the mini security booth ensemble.

Eddie patted a box. "We keep tapes for a month before we erase them."

"Right. Can you get me the tapes from two days ago?"

Carl sat down while Eddie retrieved the tapes from the appropriate box. Eddie came back with four tapes.

"Show me the one that recorded the afternoon hours."

Eddie popped the tape in, turned on the TV, and hit the play button. The screen was split into 4 boxes, each covering an angle of the store. Carl watched as various truckers came and went. Eddie pointed out a smallish man with a handle bar mustache.

"That was the first red head."

"No, that's not him. Maybe the other one."

Eddie fast-forwarded until a trucker resembling a pro-football player entered.

"This is the second one."

"Slow it down."

Carl watched as the man disappeared from one little box while simultaneously reappearing in another. He walked down the same aisle as Carl did earlier. His big hands shielded his items from view. That was until he put them down on the counter. There were two packages. One of some kind of jerky and the other was an Emperor Size pack of Fat Cakes.

_Bingo._

"Thanks, Eddie. I think this is the guy. I really app—"

His phone rang.

"Hello? Yes. Really? I'm on my way."

Carl quickly hung up.

"Well, Eddie I guess all this was for nothing. My informant said there was a sighting of the child in Glendive. Thanks for your help anyways."

* * *

"So then what happened?"

"He died," Gary says simply, "He died. My mother struggled for a little, but I helped her through it and now she's working again. I, on the other hand, decided it was time to go on a trip. I told her I was leaving. She let me leave. Been on the road ever since."

I crack the window open an inch to let some of the stale air out. He starts whistling again.

"You know, one thing I don't get...why do you steal stuff?"

He shakes his head. "I don't like to steal stuff. I need to."

"Don't you think it's unfair that you take other people's things without paying? I thought your dad was all about giving not taking. What happened to all that?"

"That's the thing isn't it? My father gave and gave and gave. And then he was taken. Was that fair? He was killed for money. Money that he was already giving away. That's all it comes down to. Money. You would think it's fair if I pay money for everything I steal right? Well, after working for two years and raising $7,000 to get a car that could have been easily given to me, then my father dying after having given so much to others, I decided to hell with money. My father was too focused on money. Everyone is too focused on money. So now I'm trading on a different market. Unfair you say? For everything I've ever stolen, I've done a good deed in return. It's called give-and-take. That way, it's not illegal and the cops don't catch me. You can call it the balance of karma, you can call it luck, whatever. When I make a purchase, I never get caught."

"You...you..."

"And now that I'm driving you to New York," he grins, "I get to take all I need."

I frown. "I don't like being an accessory to a criminal."

"Freddie, I guarantee you're not an accessory to a criminal. You're an accessory to a visionary."

"That's not funny."

"I know it's not. You can get out and walk if you want."

I look outside. A dim light peeks over the horizon signaling the end of a seemingly short night. The countryside is moving along at about 70 miles per hour.

"No thanks."

"That's what I thought."

"But I'm not stealing anything," I say turning back to him.

Gary chuckles. "Fine. I'll get enough for both of us. But you still need to work for your share. You gotta do some deeds."

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**There is an author that was recommended and I just read one of their new stories. Whispered love 13 has a story called iknow what's in the water. Crazy awesome. I have yet to review but I will with great joy.**

**Please review!**


	18. Just My Luck

**IDOI**

**So here's an update. **

* * *

"So after I got the call, I rushed to Glendive. My informant told me of an incident. A man had reported sheltering a boy for the night. When he read the newspaper in the morning, he found out that the boy was, in fact, the runaway Freddie Benson," Carl paused to take a sip of coffee, savoring both the taste and moment, "Of course it could have been a false alarm. There had been several dotted across the northwest. He could have been looking for the reward money. But I figured it was worth investigating, as the cops would've gotten there before I did. I couldn't let them get too far ahead of me."

He leaned back and tried to relax in his wrought-iron chair, though his eyes never lost focus on his audience.

"The man, Charlie, was a little on the heavy side, but I wouldn't peg him as overweight. He probably could've taken me down running. His wife, I understand you didn't meet her in person, was slim and athletic with short black hair. She was the one who answered the door. I was lead through a couple of hallways before we came to what appeared to be the sitting room. Nice floral pattern curtains, elegantly carved mahogany cabinets that contained china dishes, comfortable seats, you know, the real deal. Charlie joined us. We sat down, which is what you would expect to do in a sitting room, and I asked, 'So I understand you've had contact with Fredward Benson.'

They nodded. Charlie told me he was heading home after a visit to his mother when he spotted someone walking along the edge of the road. When he stopped, he realized it was just a teenager. Brown hair, brown eyes, tired. So he drove the kid the rest of the way to his home on Glendive.

Now this is where it gets interesting. He said he carried the kid inside and laid him on the couch in the family room. The next morning, he's reading the newspaper in that same room when he sees a surprisingly familiar face in the bottom right-hand corner of the first page. He tells the kid he's going to make breakfast and leaves the kid with his 14-year-old daughter. Charlie walks to the kitchen, phones the police, and lets them know. Then he hears the garage door opening. He runs through the house to the garage to find the kid gone, his son's bike gone, and his daughter grinning triumphantly. At this point, he brings in his daughter, Emily. Blonde and glaring."

Carl chuckled, remembering the impudent teen. Apparently, Freddie had made quite the impression on young Emily. She was the one that had helped him escape.

"She's a smart one. Figured out I was the private investigator sent to hunt you down. She called me a bunch of names and told me to—what was it—'get the hell back where I came from' and to 'leave Freddie alone.' I asked her why should I. I told her that Freddie had made his mother worried and caused a lot of trouble for being an underage runaway."

"_Is it right? Emily, his mother is worried sick. Did you know all he left her was one little note? Her child that she raised from birth left in the middle of the night without a single heartfelt goodbye. A note can't replace a hug and kiss, Emily. So why shouldn't I track him down? All he did by running away was cause a lot of trouble for his mom, the police, and his friends. And you helped him. I have Mrs. Benson's phone number. Should I call her now? Are you going to apologize for extending her suffering?"_

_Emily looked down at her hands, guilt radiating off her in soft waves. "I didn't mean to make her hurt, Mr. Hanratty, I really didn't," she said in a small voice._

_I felt ashamed of bullying a small girl. Trying to lessen her anguish, I gave her support. "It's okay. I know you didn't mean it. But you can undo your mistake by helping me return Freddie to his mother."_

_She shook her head. "I can't. I didn't mean to cause trouble but I still can't give him away. Besides, I don't know anything important."_

_I shifted forward, hands on my knees. "In my line of work, any little detail is important. Please, Emily, anything to get him back to where he belongs. Just tell me what happened."_

_Emily hesitated. "You won't tell him I told you this?"_

"_I swear on my honor. Cross my heart and hope to die and all that macabre stuff."_

"_Okay." She began winding a strand of hair around her index finger. "He woke up and we talked for a little bit. I was watching the news and he saw the story of his runaway. I realized my dad had a newspaper and might have seen the notice in the paper. He was on the phone with the police so Freddie and I snuck into the garage. I gave him my brother's bike and he left."_

_Hm. So he had a bike. I can safely bet he'd be moving faster. Which means that I can drive without stopping for quite a while._

_Interesting._

Carl decided to leave the rest of the conversation out as he was impatient to finish the story.

"I thanked Charlie, Barbara, and Emily and I jumped in my car. I punched it. I knew you were far ahead and you wouldn't stop for too long so I never stopped either. After about a day of driving, I felt pretty hungry. I pulled in here and, as I was passing the cafe, who do I see lounging about outside? Why, it's the one and only Freddie Benson. So I walk over and sit down. And I ask, 'Do you know who I am?' And being the smart boy you are, you answered, 'The PI, right?' Then I introduced myself as Carl Hanratty and told you all I went through to catch you and here we are having this one-sided conversation."

Freddie raised an eyebrow. "So you found me by luck."

Carl grinned. "I'd like to give myself a little credit, but yeah. Pretty much. Bad luck on your part, good luck on mine."

"Well, congratulations are in order. You've managed to catch up."

"I didn't just catch up. I caught _you_."

Freddie glanced around coolly. "I'd beg to differ, Carl. Can I call you Carl? You may have gotten within a couple feet of me, but I'm not in a car heading west am I?"

"You will be, Freddie," Carl insisted, "You don't have a choice. Your mother's worried, Freddie. She paid me to bring you home. Paid me. A lot. That's how much she wants you home. You don't want your mother to suffer do you?"

Guilt flashed across Freddie's face before it returned to its indifference. "She'll be fine. I'm coming back. After."

"That's the problem. After what? After you die? This isn't a game, Freddie. This is the real world. No extra lives, no redos, no replays. It's dangerous out there. You think it's going to be this easy the whole way through? You haven't even begun."

It was Freddie's turn to lean back. "That's where you're wrong, Carl. This isn't a game. But I do have an extra redo. And I'm not about to waste it. I know I haven't faced the worst yet but I'm sure I can meet it when it comes."

"How?" Carl asked, his hands now laying flat on the table. He stared at the boy in front of him, "How? You have a bike. You haven't even made it to North Dakota. And you have no money. How? See what I mean by you have no choice? You make a run for it right now and I'll catch up in no time. You have a bike. I have a car. I win. Now, will you come quietly or will you make a scene?"

Freddie considered his choices for a moment and smirked. "I'll make a scene."

With that, he abruptly stood up and bolted from his seat, shoving the table at Carl. He then jumped the low gate that mark the entrance to the outside eating area and ran. Carl shook his head and calmly removed the table from his stomach. They always ran. He chuckled to himself. Oh well.

Carl opened the gate. Freddie had gotten a considerable head start as he was now disappearing around the corner. Carl gave chase, quickly covering the distance between him and the end of the restaurant. As he turned the corner, he saw Freddie standing on the curb, his thumb sticking out and his arm extended.

_He thinks he can get a ride that quickly? A mistake, Freddie._

But then something happened. A black Mustang pulled out of the line of cars driving by and screeched to a stop in front of the runaway. Freddie slid across the hood and got inside. The car accelerated and vanished into the traffic head onto the Freeway.

_Well, damn. He's got himself a car._

* * *

I smooth down my hair, breathing deeply. My hands shake with a mix of adrenaline and relief. I had tried my best to play it cool and it worked. He didn't know I was planning my escape since the moment he sat down. I knew Gary was coming back soon after he ran some "errands" so all I had to do was get away and flash our signal.

"Who was that?"

Gary looks in the rearview mirror, checking for any following cars. There are none.

"That," I answer, "was Carl Hanratty. Private investigator. He's gonna catch me, Gary, he really is."

* * *

**So that was an update. I'm not gonna make a mistake this time: ****Tech-Man, KingxLeon21, Pigwiz, axel100, BaalRules, ****Myjumpingsocks, BoxOfTrinkets, and The Earl Of Sandwich. Hopefully, no one was left out. Check out their stories. Also, aussiemma has something aussome. Get it?**

**It would make me SO happy if you would review. Please?**

**P.S. Please check out my Frothy story. I need to know if stories with cats are good.**


	19. My Ups, Downs, and In Betweens

It happens again.

_And my heart breaks. I realize what I have done and I can't breathe. The guilt quickly fills my body. I gather what little feeling I have left to raise my head...just in time to see a fist heading toward my face. And before it makes contact,_

_I dodge it._

_I grab her wrist. And I hear myself whisper._

_"I'm sorry, Sam. I-I didn't mean it."_

_She glares at me, her eyes still shining with uncried tears. "I hate you."_

_She runs to the door and wrenches it open. "And I mean it."_

_I manage to grab the handle before the door slams shut. Bursting into the hallway, I see Sam's hair whip around the corner._

_"Sam, wait!"_

_I run after her. I hear the sound of shoes against metal so I know she's taking the stairs. But as I reach the door to the stairwell, I trip. The ground rushes up to meet my face. My arm lashes out to break the fall. A pain shoots through my wrist but I ignore it and stand up. I clamber down the steps, taking two or three at a time. Her footsteps are non-existent so I know she's probably already out the door. When I reach the lobby, the front door is closing and Lewbert's screaming "No fleeing in the lobby." I'm halfway across the room before I feel a hand come down on my shoulder. I turn to see Lewbert with fire in his eyes. He shakes me roughly._

_"I SAID NO—"_

_I punch him in face and he staggers backwards. As he tries to regain equilibrium, I exit out the door, pounding down the sidewalk, looking, hoping I would catch a glimpse of her blonde hair disappearing around the corner._

_There! A flash of yellow. I duck into an alley way to head her off at the next street. The light at the other end of the alley grows brighter and brighter. I'm almost there. I take the last few steps._

_I burst into the sunlight, into the rush of people. They jostle me back and forth, some giving dirty looks at what they think is a trouble maker. One man shouts at me._

"_Get out of the way!"_

_I apologize quickly and he goes on his merry way._

_I turn on the spot, looking in every direction for the flash I saw earlier. But it's gone. I had lost focus for just one fleeting moment and she had disappeared._

_I make a decision and I rush off down the side walk. I'm not going to get anywhere if I'm standing still._

My eyes shoot open and I realize that this time the dream didn't wake me; I woke myself up.

It's the early morning and a fresh breeze plays through the slightly open window. Warm sunlight streams into the car, heating the seat and providing me with comfort for my aching back. Sleeping in a car wreaks havoc on my spine, but I can't complain. It's better than sleeping on the street.

"So you want to tell me what all that moaning and groaning was about? You've been doing every time you fall asleep."

Gary's voice reminds me that he's still in the car. And that I haven't told him anything yet. It isn't fair because he told me about his troubles, but for some reason, I'm reluctant to give him my story. He's a kid like me and I'm afraid he'll judge me for what I did. He's different than who Martha was. He's different than Emily. He's—he's...I don't know. Maybe I'm being foolish, but he's a guy my age and even though this is a serious matter, I'm afraid to tell him.

He's still waiting for a response so I say, "It was nothing. Just a nightmare."

He gives me a long look and I figure he's more perceptive than I thought. He knows I'm lying. But he doesn't pursue the matter.

"Okay. You don't have to tell me."

He says it's okay. But it's not. Gary's voice is hard with no emotion. The air instantly gets colder and I feel regret. Gary focuses on the road while annoyance and disappointment radiate through the car. I can't help but think that things aren't going to be smooth flowing between us until I confess.

I figure I'll try to hold out as long as I can.

We travel in silence a little longer. A city approaches and Gary says it's time for me to earn my keep.

"Excuse me. Excuse me, ma'am, would you like some help?"

I'm stationed outside a supermarket to aid people with a lot of groceries. So far, I've gotten shifty looks as though helping a person in need is a suspicious act. These days, no one trusts anyone anymore. It's sad but true. And people are right. There's no reason to trust anymore. You can only hope that, sooner or later, when someone eventually breaks your trust, you can forgive them for what they've done.

The lady shakes her head. "Sorry, I don't have any spare change."

She hurries away while I stare in surprise.

This is harder than I thought.

Several failed attempts later, Gary pulls up.

"Hey, get in. There's an old guy in the suburbs who needs his porch railing painted. He'll pay us so this is legit."

Relieved, I jump in and we take off. When we arrive, the man hands us two brushes and points to some cans of paint on his walkway. Then he points to the already masking-taped porch.

He quickly retreats into the house. I'm left wondering if I smell or something because he seemed reluctant to open his mouth. I give myself a cursory sniff, unfortunately realizing that I haven't showered since the motel. That was days ago.

It takes us two hours to paint the railing and another hour to clean everything up. The man hands us 3 tens. Whoop dee doo.

I ask Gary if we could rent a motel room for a night. Like me, he smells himself and instantly agrees.

I flip through the channels as Gary showers. I'm hit with a feeling of nostalgia. I remember the old days when relaxing with Carly and Sam was the only important thing in the world. We spent hours on the bean bags in the studio, watching mundane things like the Celebrities Underwater, Girly Cow, and the Mexican Dessert Channel. Now I'm in a motel room halfway across the country waiting for a teen with a screwed sense of justice to drive me somewhere other than where I am. I say that because lately things have been grinding along. I have no sense of progress. Countless hours on the road, doing good deeds.

Suddenly, a familiar sight catches my attention. Girly Cow. One part of my mind screams to turn it off. But the other part fights back and I become mesmerized.

Has she seen an episode since she left?

Is she watching right now?

I snort at the thought. Wishful thinking on my part, to think that for a moment, somehow, I could be closer to her than ever through a simple TV show.

Ridiculous.

And yet, as I keep watching, impatience sets in. What am I doing here?

A few more seconds and I'm pounding my fist on the bathroom door.

"Get out of there! We gotta go!"

I keep at it until he abruptly pulls the door open.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I give him a quick glance over and find that he's already dressed.

"Good. You're ready. Get your keys. The sooner we get back on the road, the sooner we'll get to New York."

Gary stares. "Um...I don't know who you think you are, but no one orders me around."

For emphasis, he jabs me in the chest with his finger. I'm scared I might have crossed the line so I try to back track.

"Actually, I meant...uh, I was just wondering if we've spent too—"

He breaks into heaving laughs and I know I've been had once again. I calmly wait it out.

"Oh my god," he says between breaths, "you were so scared. Man, I should become a comedian or something. Perfect timing as always."

"Ha ha," I laugh sarcastically, "funny. And as we're sitting here telling oh-so-funny jokes, Sam is out there doing who knows what to survive."

Gary is in the process of attempting to smooth down his hair when I say this. He freezes and slowly turns from the mirror on the wall.

"Who's Sam?"

"No one." I try to cover up my mistake. "Don't worry about it. Let's go."

He leaves it alone until we're cruising along the freeway.

"Soooo," he begins conversationally, "nice weather we're having."

The sky is gray and gloomy. Thick, dark clouds blow into position overhead, signaling an inevitable downpour.

"Yeah. It sure is."

He nods. "Yep...So who's Sam?"

I sigh. "Why do you even need to know?"

"I dunno," he shrugs, "this is going to be long trip and we're going to be sitting in this car a majority of it. Seems like a good idea to know who Sam is if he's important to you."

"She."

Gary raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised. "She?"

"She."

"Ok. She."

"And I don't want to talk about it. Stop asking."

"Fine. Whatever. I never wanted to—whoa! Look! There are a couple of kids on the side of the road!"

Gary's exclamation gets my attention. At first I don't believe him, but sure enough, plodding slowly on the other side of the road are two kids. One has short blonde hair and the other has long purple hair.

The blonde is sticking his thumb out. Both are carrying backpacks.

"Get over there."

"Good idea, Freddie," Gary agrees, " Maybe they'll be able to help us do some good deeds."

Gary pulls a dangerous U-turn in the middle of the freeway. Luckily, there was no center divide otherwise we would have been dog food. He drives onto the dirt and screeches to a stop 20 feet in front of the pair. We get out of the car and wait as they gratefully make their way towards us. As they get closer, their faces come into focus. When Gary said kids, he was right. They're mid to early teens, probably still in their sophomore year.

The boy was the blonde and the girl was the...purple. And as they arrive, they're holding hands.

"Thank you so much," the girl starts, breathless, "I thought we were going to have to walk the whole way."

"Well, that depends," Gary says, "where are you going?"

This time the boy replies. "We're trying to get to California."

Gary shakes his head and begins to apologize.

"Sorry, kid, but we going to—"

"Go home."

Gary glances at me, but I ignore him. I can't let this happen. The boy looks at me confusedly.

"What?"

I take a step forward and he puts a protective arm in front of the girl.

"I said, 'Go home.'"

"Why?" The boy's curt question reminds me of Sam's stubbornness. The same heated glare. The same challenging tone. The same confrontational stance.

Gary moves forward and grabs my arm. "Come on, Freddie, if they want to go just let them."

I brush him off. "No. Go home."

Blondie laughs. "Who are you to tell us what to do? You don't even know what we're—"

"You're running away."

He sputters and the girl angrily shoves his arm out of the way. She stomps up to me, purple hair flying, and eyes flashing.

"So? What of it? You don't know what we've been through. You don't know why we ran. You don't know that I love him and he loves me. You don't know that our parents don't give a crap about our feelings, that they just want to destroy our relationship just because they have some kind of long standing grudge. You don't know that the only way to be together is to run. You don't know anything. So don't just order us around because you have some misguided sense of righteousness that says you know what's best for us!"

"Maybe I don't know all that," I say quietly, "but I do know that running away never solves anything. It just makes things worse. Be my guest. You can run all you want, until you reach your perfect place. But the problem's still there. And when you realize that leaving things behind doesn't mean they'll disappear and that they'll just pile on the people you left behind, you'll find that running away is selfish and cowardly. THAT'S ALL THERE IS TO IT!"

I turn and I jerk open the car door.

"Let's go, Gary. I don't need to help a couple of snot nosed brats."

We hop in and he takes off, making another dangerous u-turn to get into the east bound lane. In the rear-view mirror, I see the teens stare as we drive off. They grow smaller and smaller until they finally disappear from view.

"That was a little harsh," Gary points out.

I sigh and lean my head against the window. Closing my eyes, I explain.

"Yeah. I know. But they had to go home."

Gary chuckles. "Jeez, Freddie. Why are you so uptight about this? If their parents won't let them be together, only thing they can do is run. You heard them. The parents didn't care about their feelings. Why would you want to stick around with parents like those?"

"Look, sometimes...people say things. That they don't really mean. And deep down they actually do care. And sometimes it takes something bad to make them realize what they really feel. I'm sure the parents are willing to talk things over. They were just confronted with something they couldn't handle so they shoved it away without thinking. Those kids should go home and have a nice long sit down and have a heart to heart."

He gives me a long, scrutinizing look.

And in all seriousness, he says,"I think...that if we want this partnership to work, you should tell me. I'm just putting it out there. Because you ever lose your cool like that again, I'm going to have to kick you from the car. You're already being hunted. We can't risk anything else."

I know he's being serious. And I know he's right.

"Pull in at the next gas station. If I tell you, I'm not stealing anything. If I lose my nerve, I'm going in. Alright?"

"Ok with me."

* * *

"Wow. What a jerk." I turn to Jason. "Can you believe that? He thinks he knows what's best for us. What a douche. C'mon. Let's go."

I start walking but Jason's hand stays put. He looks at me with those dark green eyes that I love so much. For the first time since we set off, I see a little doubt. And it worries me.

"Jason..."

He pulls me into a hug.

"Lillie, you know I love you right? I would do anything for you. Anything."

"Jason, what are you—"

"I'm just asking you to hold on a minute. Maybe we should take a step back and think things through."

I can't believe it. He actually wants to go back. To them.

"We can't go back. If we do, they'll break us up. I don't want to lose you. We can't go back."

He hugs me tighter. He's shivering. Maybe because of the gust of wind from the cars flying by. Maybe not.

"I'm not saying we should go back. I'm saying we should just...think. Just think."


	20. My Undeniable Confusion

**I don't own iCarly. **

**And I don't wish to because I'd be pretty ashamed of myself right about now...**

**Anyways, I saw HP7 and it was great, save for a couple things I could've done without. (Semi-nude scene? Really?)**

**This chapter was written over the last few weeks, what with my Subject tests coming up, and it may seem disconnected. However, it really reflects what I feel about the story as I'm writing it.**

* * *

Anyone could tell she was anything but okay with the way she drifted through the school like some sort of intangible specter. She hadn't uttered a word for days save for the infrequent "yes, ma'am" and "no thank you." The other students tried to ignore her not because they were unsympathetic but because no one knew what to say.

What do you say to someone who just lost her second best friend?

When Sam ran away, Freddie and Carly stopped communicating. Back then, everyone comforted them. Carly was constantly surrounded by people saying it was going to be all right. I was there for Freddie, though there was something off about him. He seemed distant, always staring out the window or nodding absently at whatever I had to say.

When he disappeared, Carly's entire comforting crowd disappeared along with him. They knew that they couldn't say it was going to be all right. They couldn't. Not if you lose two of your closest friends within months. There was no hope. They knew. And she knew.

Along the way, I had started to lose hope, too. I wasn't really close to Sam except for when she gave me wedgies, but she was still a part of my life. And Freddie was one of my oldest friends. I nearly cried when Carly told me the news because I knew if Freddie decided to run, it would take a lot to get him back.

I hadn't really spoken to Carly since then. I felt as though we shouldn't talk. With Freddie and Sam gone, gathering the remaining members of the iCarly group was, in a way, sacrilegious. So we went our separate ways for a while.

Then one day, I found her sitting in the bleachers. She was huddled against the cold, bundled up in her school hoodie. I climbed the stairs and as I approached, I heard her sniffling. I took a seat next to her, but she didn't acknowledge my presence. I cautiously tapped her shoulder.

"Carly?"

Carly jumped in surprise.

"Gibby! You scared me!"

I smiled sheepishly. "Oh, sorry. It's cold out and I just wanted to see what you were doing."

She looked away, suddenly drawing back into herself.

"Nothing," she answered. "Just sitting here. On the bleachers."

I may be considered a bit of an idiot, but even I could tell she was sitting on the bleachers. She gave another sniff and wiped her nose on her sleeve which I now noticed to be covered in wet spots and snot.

"So what are you doing? Sitting here. On the bleachers."

"Nothing."

This conversation was going nowhere. I'd rather go somewhere than nowhere, no matter where that somewhere is. And this might be the perfect opportunity to break through and see how she's been. But I have to do it tactfully otherwise I might make it worse.

"So...Carly," I begin hesitantly, "How have you been holding up since your best friends ran away?"

I winced immediately. Tact had never been my middle name; though if I expected her to burst into tears, I was wrong. She merely sighed heavily and replied, "I'm fine."

Carly had never been a good liar, and yet the way she said it...I almost believed her. I remembered back to the time Spencer was teaching me to lie. He said he never got the hang of it, but Sam had taught him the basics.

"You have to say things like you mean it. Even if you really don't."

"What?" Carly turned around confusedly.

Whoops. I had accidently said that out loud.

"Er-nothing. Are you sure you're fine? It's okay to say what's on your mind. I'm just a Gibby."

She smiled grudgingly. "You're not just a Gibby. You're a good friend."

Carly scooted closer and put her head on my shoulder. Warning bells flashed in my mind and I tensed up. If Tasha or someone saw us like this, I'd be in trouble. I quickly pushed these thoughts out of my head. Carly needed a friend to be there for her. I'll deal with any consequences later. Putting my arm around her shoulder, I ask her again, "So how've you holding up?"

"I don't know," she said. "I-I guess I've been trying to accept it. When Sam ran away, I sort of cried a lot. She's been there for me through thick and thin. We may have had our arguments, but we always knew that we would be best friends no matter what. I spent a lot of time by myself in the park taking everything in. I was sad, angry, disappointed, and shocked all at the same time. I wanted to organize my thoughts." Carly looked up at me. "I know you two weren't on the best of terms and she's given you a hard time these past few years, but she's a good person at heart. She told me she was actually trying to cut back on the insults."

I shook my head. "I miss her too, Carly. And Freddie. They both were a part of my life."

Carly wiped her nose on her sleeve again. "And I still don't know about Freddie. When I found out what he did, I was so... so angry at him. Now I feel bad for being mad at him."

I felt like I was missing a major part of the puzzle. "Wait. What did Freddie do?"

Carly squeezed her eyes shut tight. "Sam did something to his laptop and he shouted some...things at her. That's why she left."

I was incredulous. "Freddie? Our Freddie?"

Freddie wasn't one to go berserk. I actually admired his cool-headed logic. I've always wanted to be like him.

She nodded. "Yeah. I understand why he did it though. Sam can go too far. I didn't think about it because she was always good to me. I guess that's because I was probably her first real friend. I was the first one to stand against her...abrasiveness and convince her I was the real deal. She's always had a problem with trust. That's why she did things to you guys. She didn't want you to get too close because she was afraid you might leave like everything else in her life."

I sputtered. "I wouldn't have—"

"She didn't know that, Gibby. I know you wouldn't have. That's why they call it an irrational fear. Compared to you guys, she was actually weaker emotionally. Freddie couldn't take it. Sam did some bad stuff to him, but I thought he could last until I was able to get Sam to express her emotions better. She never actually meant to drive him crazy. But when I talked to him for the first time in months, I just let it all out without thinking of his point of view."

Carly began to shake and a couple tears fell from her eyes onto my jacket.

"I yelled at him and said it was all his fault. Next thing I know, he's gone. By this time, I've already cried so much, I can barely leak a few tears. And suddenly, no one talked to me anymore and I'd never felt so alone in my life."

She buried her face in my shoulder, still let out a dry sob now and then. I feel angry at both the other students of Ridgeway and myself. Here Carly's been needed someone there for her and we've all been stuck in our own selfish, cowardly worlds, too afraid to do anything. Well, that changes now.

"I'm sorry I didn't talk to you sooner," I rubbed her back soothingly. "I'm here for you now, Carly."

"Thanks, Gibby," she mumbled, "But I still feel like Freddie's running away was my fault. If I hadn't said all those things and been such a hypocrite, he'd still be here."

"It's not your fault. It was never your fault. This is Freddie we're talking about. He'd never blame you. If he ran away, he probably had a good reason."

* * *

"I'm sorry, Freddie, but that has got to be the worst reason I've ever heard."

I can't help but feel hurt and angered at Gary's grinning face.

"Are you joking around right now? Because this is not a laughing matter."

"I'm not joking. You ran away to make things better? To find her and tell her you love her? What were you thinking?"

I glare at him though he doesn't notice. "You have a problem with me going to New York for Sam?"

"No. I don't have a problem with you going to New York. I have a problem with you going for Sam. Why would you just leave everything behind for some girl who you never got along with? That's just stupid."

I smile sarcastically. "Well...how do I put this...fuck you!"

I undo my seatbelt and leave the car, slamming the door closed behind me. I hear Gary get out after me, but I ignore him. Where does he get off? Telling me Sam wasn't worth it.

"Freddie! Freddie, wait!"

I make it a few more steps before he reaches me. He grabs my shoulder and spins me around. And before I know what I'm doing, I punch him in the gut. He doubles over, coughing.

"I guess I deserved that," he wheezes.

"Yeah. Yeah, you did," I say coldly.

Gary looks up, apologetic. "I'm sorry. Look, just get back in the car, alright?"

He straightens up and I follow back to the Mustang. We sit in our usual tense/awkward silence. The majority of these silences are caused by me. Gary always wants to talk but I think he knows I never know what to say so he never initiates conversation. Though this time, he takes the plunge.

"I don't approve of your choice, but I can respect it. I'm sorry I insulted your intelligence. And Sam, for that matter. If she's worth it to you, then I shouldn't put it down."

I nod. "Thank you."

"But—"

I quickly turn my head, looking for another fight. He holds up his hands in surrender.

"I'm not going to talk about your choice. Just hear me out, Freddie."

I sigh. "Fine."

"How...how do you know you love her?"

"What?" I ask confusedly.

Gary taps his fingers on the steering wheel. "You know, how do you know you love...Sam?"

I think back to Martha. That meeting on the bus seems to have occurred years ago. How did she put it?

"She's been in my dreams for the last 4 months. I left everything behind to travel across the country. If I care about her that much, isn't it a given that I feel something for her? I mean, I never felt love before, but Martha—she's an old lady I met on a bus—said that if I feel that strongly about getting Sam back, then I probably have feelings for her."

"I guess that sound reasonable. But you said Martha was an old lady."

"So?"

Gary raised his eyebrows. "They tend to be a bit romantic at times, don't you think?"

My heart sinks as I see the road ahead. I know what Gary's trying to do.

"Well, I met a 14 year old named Emily and she also thought it was love. She said it was just like a Nicholas Sparks novel."

He wags his finger. "And a Nicholas Sparks novel was what she was looking for. Freddie, she said that because she liked the idea. Same as Martha. They just didn't see any other explanations for why you would do such a thing."

I scoff nervously, suddenly fearful at the turns we are taking. "And you do?"

Gary nods. "Let me ask you this: when Sam ran away, did you feel...guilty?"

"Yes."

"And you said you wanted to show Sam that people care about her?"

"Yes."

"And you think you love her?"

"I know I do."

"Are you sure? Or are you just saying that to make yourself feel better?"

He gives me a piercing look. It takes a moment for me to fully understand. When I do, my stomach turns inside out and I feel like throwing up. Gary says my name, but to me it sounds muffled and hazy. Guilt? That long forgotten emotion? Could everything I've done so far be because I was guilt-ridden? I felt the worst I've ever felt in my life after I shouted at her. And the guilt stuck with me for while. But then things started growing stranger and I didn't know what I was feeling anymore. The dreams, ache in my heart when I think of her, the sheer weight of her absence in my life for months...it had been explained so perfectly. On that bus, Martha had cleared up so many of my chaotic feelings. It seemed so simple. I loved Sam.

But maybe that was why I accepted it. Because it was simple and it easily explained what I couldn't comprehend: the motive behind my actions. I remember the vow I made to show Sam that people care for her. Maybe that was because of guilt, too. And yet, the idea of getting closer to New York, getting closer to Sam, makes me feel warmer inside. Is that love? Or guilt? Had my guilt manifested itself as my love for Sam to make my subconscious feel better about itself?

Or maybe I'm going crazy and I don't know what to think anymore, what to feel anymore, or what to do anymore.

I don't know.

Gary gives up on trying to get my attention.

And as he leaves the car and heads to the gas station Mini-Mart, I feel a spot of darkness slowly spreading in the middle of my mind.

Doubt.

**

* * *

**

**Really, really.**

**There are a couple outstanding authors out there right now and by a couple I actually mean these people right here: the Earl of Sandwich, KingxLeon21, Tech-Man, Pigwiz, Pieequals36, Axel100, iLuvNathanKress, aussiemma, BoxofTrinkets, iCarlyAngst, Italianbabex08, myjumpingsocks, CommanderLagasse, Baalrules, Ober22, really this list could go on, but I'm going to end it there for sake of time.**

**Oh and there's this fic called Further Than Today...the author is a really great guy once you get to know him...and his writing doesn't suck in the general sense.**

***groans* Shameless...really...SO shameless...tsk, tsk, tsk**

**Anyways, peace out.**


	21. My Downward Spiral

**Hey, ya'll. I haven't died. Yet. Just a sort of filler chapter. Though it is sort of important. It's almost a repeat of the last chapter except it's different.**

* * *

_I ran._

_My steps were urgent though their echoes followed at a leisurely pace through the thick silence. As I came to intersection, I slowed to a stop and looked around. It seemed familiar, but I couldn't quite remember when I had ever been here before. The buildings on every corner were abnormally gray, the color nearly matching that of the pavement beneath my feet and the sky above my head. The windows were dark, unreflective squares. They stared blankly at me from the walls. _

_All the same._

_I walked into the middle of the intersection and spun around, wondering which street I should take. To late I realized that I had forgotten which street I came from._

_They were all the same._

_Which way?_

_The buildings imperceptibly inched towards me, their eyes invading my vision with every fruitless turn I took. I suddenly felt claustrophobic. The air heated up around my body, sweat beginning to form on my forehead. I craved for a breeze._

_It came. It caressed my face with cool fingers. It danced through my hair. It whispered in my ears._

_I gasped. Surely not... I convinced myself it was a hallucination. A figment of my—_

_There it was again. From the left. _

_I took off. _

_All I could see were my feet moving back and forth, my sneakers forming two black streaks contrasting against the gray that was blurring by. My ears strained to hear her voice over the wind that now whistled around me._

"_Freddie..."_

_I skidded to a halt. She had spoken impossibly close. I whirled around once again._

"_Sam?" I said hesitantly._

_The window behind me. I walked closer, staring into the looming blackness. I stopped with my face inches from the smooth, dark glass. I cautiously extended my hand, expecting my fingers to come into contact. They didn't. My arm was sunk into the window up to my elbow._

"_Freddie..."_

"_...Sam?"_

_I shouted in alarm as something pulled me in. I closed my eyes, instinctively bracing for impact. I had impression of tumbling through water that wasn't wet. After a few moments, the falling sensation in my stomach disappeared. I worked up the courage to open my eyes. When I did, I discovered I still couldn't see. Panic rose in the back of my throat. I experimentally waved my hand in front of my face._

_Nothing._

"_Freddie..."_

_I began to suffocate, the darkness pressing in on my body. It filled my eyes, eyes, mouth, and nose. I tried to shout._

_Silence._

* * *

Carl rushes out of the library, shoving the doors open with a bang and causing several startled birds to take to the windy skies. In his left hand, his car keys. In his right hand, a manila folder with one piece of paper neatly tucked inside. The efficiency of such a folder is highly questionable as a single piece of paper is hardly difficult to organize. However, Carl spares himself his idiosyncrasies. Folders are important to him. Especially this one. It contains information, an investigator's favorite thing.

He quickly unlocks his car door and gets in. He shuts the door against the blustery weather, adjusting himself to a more comfortable position. He takes out his briefcase and from that he removes a thicker folder labeled "Freddie Benson." Flipping through a couple pages, he finds a paper marked "Samantha Puckett." On there is a picture of a young blonde girl grinning wildly at the camera. He looks at the paper that is in the folder in his right hand. A corresponding picture along with some extra information. He sighs and dials a number on his cell phone.

"Hey, Kane, can you find me a black Mustang, 60's, license plate number SI5-D3D. Thanks. By the way, you know anyone in New York? The city, yeah...alright. What's the number? 718...212...9136. Okay. Yeah. Thanks again. I owe you big."

* * *

"There was a guy who got the whole left side of his body cut off. He nearly died," Gary glances at me, "But now he's all right."

I give him a disparaging look.

"Come on, I know that was funny."

For the past couple days, he's been cracking jokes and puns. I haven't laughed. I can't get over the feeling of doubt that was at the back and is now at the forefront of my mind. I stared at Sam's picture for hours on end, hoping it would tell me something, anything. I tried to tell myself I loved her, I loved the girl in the picture. I loved her slightly messy, long blonde hair. I loved her mischievous smirk. I loved her crass humor, her irresistible freedom, her strange peculiarities. But then it would come back.

The darkness.

And I would ask myself, "Since when?" Since I drove her away? Since I destroyed years of Carly's attempts to gently remove her walls?

The doubt worked its way through my thoughts.

Many would say you never know what you have until it's gone. That's a lie. It's gone now, but I still don't know what I had. Who was Sam? Was she the walls or was she the girl? It all begins to blur together in confusion. I end up with more questions than when I started.

It was simple. I go to New York and rescue. I tell her I love her and hopefully she forgives me and we start our new lives.

Now it's not. I go to New York while avoiding the police and Carl to rescue a girl who I don't really know and I never thought I knew. I either tell her I love her or apologize until my guilt disappears. Then what?

The dream had me waking up in cold sweat. I didn't go back to sleep. I didn't want to suffocate. But now, now I'm choking in the daylight.

* * *

"Hello? Yes. Kane said you'd be calling. Yes. Yes. We know. Yes. Of course. We'll be there. What's the address? Mhm...Okay. Thanks...Yep. Thanks for working with us, Carl, the NYPD appreciates your assistance. Good bye."

* * *

His phone rang.

"Kane? Where is it? Wisconsin?"

* * *

We've stopped. Gary looks out at the span of water that abruptly expanded out from the front tires. The sky is suspiciously bright and cheerful though the wind slightly rocks the car back and forth. The sound of waves crashing against the sheer edge broke its way through the windows.

I look around. "Where are we? How'd we get to the ocean?"

Gary opens the door and steps outside. "Ocean? One spiral into depression and you're already going crazy? We're in Wisconsin, north of Milwaukee. This is a little lake called Lake Michigan."

I also step outside. A strong gust hits me and I grab the car for support. Gary walks to the drop-off and draws in a deep breath, teetering over the rough water below.

"Ah, just breathe it in, Freddie. Breathe it in."

"What?"

"The lake air. Whenever I need to think or just relax, I always go to a lake or, if possible, an ocean. Somewhere with water. There's just something to do with the water, you know, it just clears my head, it makes me feel alive."

He made the exaggerated gesture of shoveling air into his nose.

"Ahhh. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah. Sure."

I lean against the car, kicking the dirt around. Stupid Gary. Stupid doubt. Stupid—

"I'm sorry."

I jerk my head up. He's staring at the lake.

"I'm sorry, I made you all...like this."

I join him at the edge and he glances at me seriously.

"Really."

"You already apologized at the gas station," I point out.

"Yeah, but now I'm apologizing again. For the second thing."

"Thanks. But it doesn't change anything," I sigh and rub my arm for the warmth, "I can't stop thinking about it. What if—what if you're right? What if it was only guilt? What if—Gary, I'm losing my mind, I can't get away from it. I'm beginning to doubt everything I've ever known. You know what I just realized? I realized I don't even think I know the real Sam. I only knew her walls. So if I fell in love, who did I fall in love with?"

"Crap, Freddie, you...you have a point," he pauses, "But I brought you here for a reason. Just breathe in and breathe out. You can't keep thinking like this. Just get your head clear. We'll find out when we get there alright?"

I keep silent.

"Alright?"

"No. I think I'm going back."

A car screeches to a stop, raising a cloud of dust that is whipped away by the wind. A strange apprehension seizes me as I wait for the driver to get out.

He does.

I can almost imagine a tumbleweed blowing by like in those old Westerns. The ones where there's two guys in the street with guns and all the bystanders run into their shops and houses in fear. We don't have guns, but our eyes shoot looks.

"Hey, Carl, how's it going?"

Carl grins and shrugs. The tension is broken. "I'm doing okay," he said. "You?"

"I could be better. Hey, about going back to Seattle—"

Gary chooses this moment to put his hand over my mouth.

"Get in the car, Freddie," he whispers.

I wiggle free, pushing his hand aside. "No. I'm done," turning to Carl, I say, "I want to go home."

He dances a jig giddily. It seems Christmas has come early for him.

"Great! That makes things a lot easier, but, um, any reason why you chose now?"

"I'm tired, Carl. I have no idea what I'm doing anymore."

Gary interrupts. "Look, Carl, Freddie been through a rough time these past few days. He's a little confused. Doesn't know what he's saying, really. Just, be a good investigator and leave us alone for a couple more weeks, eh?"

Carl shakes his head. "No can do, Gary," Gary's eyes shoot wide in surprise, "Oh, yes, I know your name, Gary Williams. I also know that your mom's name is Ivy and she's a lawyer in Colorado. I know your dad's name was Henry. He gave a lot of money away before he was shot. I know everything from your birthday to which hens laid the eggs that you ate for breakfast on the morning of April 12, 1998. Just kidding about that last part, but I'm serious about everything else. As I said, no can do. Freddie has to go home. That's it. No negotiations. No deals. Nothing. Come on, Freddie, playtime is over."

I nod a goodbye to a dumbstruck Gary and I make my way to Carl. Suddenly, halfway across the clearing, something hefts me up and bodily throws me into the Mustang. Before I know it, we peel out of the lot and we're zooming down some road.

"Did...did you just kidnap me?"

Gary chuckles nervously. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"Um...why?"

He swerves around an extremely lucky rabbit.

"Because you don't know what you're doing either way. But what you do know is that there's a girl named Sam waiting in New York not in Seattle. You can figure everything else out later."

* * *

**A conglomeration of things left in my mind. Needed to get it out in order to start the next chapter.**

**As usual, please report any convention errors. I appreciate it. Oh and please review.**

**Dedicated to Josh's apartment. May it rest in peace.**


	22. My New Outlook

**I don't own iCarly.**

**So here's an update. **

* * *

Clearly, Carl didn't want to let us go without a fight as he's currently following us along the road. In the rearview mirror, I see him grinning. He waves.

"So he wants a car chase, huh?" Gary says, also grinning, "I'll give him a car chase."

He slams on the gas and the Mustang rockets forward, pressing me into the leather. The engine growls angrily, growing louder and louder as Carl gets smaller and smaller. Gary shouts in triumph.

"Let's see his lame ass Continental catch us now!"

* * *

"_What? Are you serious?"_

"_Yes. 200."_

"_Miles per hour?"_

"_What else? Kilometers? We're in America. We use miles."_

"_I don't know, mister. This thing's a junk heap. I doubt she can get past 80."_

"_That's what they said about your mother. But she's 86 isn't she? And she's at home on the couch right now waiting for the next pay check from her no good, criminal son so you better hurry up and do your job."_

* * *

"Um...Gary? He's catching up."

Miraculously, Carl's heavy clunker is gaining on us. He still has that same ridiculous grin on his face. Gary checks the mirror and swears. He clicks on his seatbelt which prompts me to do the same. He urges the car forward and the speedometer needle steadily rises. We enter a suburban neighborhood. I pray that the road is empty of cops and children because if we're caught now, it's game over. 180 in a residential area? With a runaway and a thief?

Jesus Christ.

But there's no other way. Gary's right. Just like this chase, I just have to suck it up and toss the dice. Otherwise, I'm never really going to get anywhere am I?

Gary screeches around a corner, the stop sign a red blur in my peripheral vision. I attempt to hold onto my stomach acids. He wouldn't like it if I threw up on his dashboard. I glance back and find that we've put more distance between us and the Lincoln. It seems that Carl's car takes turns like an overweight giraffe.

The suburban landscape gives away to a cold downtown district full of brick buildings and rusted signs. People stare as we pass by. Gary has to now dodge traffic and I close my eyes quickly after one particularly close shave. A horn honks.

"There!"

I try to grab onto something, anything to keep me from slamming into the side window, as Gary pulls a heart stopping turn, squeezing the car into a decrepit alleyway. Peering out the back window, I see the faded white of Carl's car shoot by. We both sit and breathe, the adrenaline still coursing through our systems.

"Whoa."

"Yeah."

"Let's give him a couple minutes. He's probably hanging around," Gary muses. He reaches over and pops open the glove box, removing a slightly worn map. He unfolds the map and it fills the cramped space. He traces the edge of Lake Michigan.

"I think we're on the edge of the outskirts of downtown Milwaukee. You wanna go through or around?"

"Which way is faster?"

He thinks for a second. "Probably around. We can get good time on the freeway."

I look up through the windshield. The alley frames a perfect rectangle of sky, orange and pink with no clouds.

"Think we can make it to Chicago before dark?"

Gary folds the map, stowing it back in the glove box. "No problem. It'll only take us a couple hours."

He starts the car and backs out of the alley. Carl and his car are nowhere to be found. We get out on the open road and true to his word Gary drives us to Chicago in about two and a half hours. The city isn't as windy as its names suggests though there is a strong gust now and then. It's dark as we fly through the streets. Well, at least the sky is. The sidewalks are illuminated by the multitudes of lights overhead which are reflected, glaring, in the windows of skyscrapers. The road becomes crowded with other drivers and we slow to a safe speed. People outside talk and shout and laugh, always moving, always engaged in what they call their own world. The liveliness of the city strikes me as unfamiliar and foreign. It feels like months since I've been in a major metropolitan area. It's all been towns and suburbs with the occasional stretch of interstate. Either that or it's because of the virtual prison I've inhabited within myself for the past few days. In that case, maybe it's time to break out.

"Hey."

"Yeah?" Gary answers.

"I want to do something."

"What?"

"I dunno. Something."

"Oh," he laughs, "in that case, let's go to the something bar down the street or maybe the something store. What about the something building? We could always visit that."

"Funny," I say, stone-faced.

He puts me in a headlock. "I'm just kiddin' with ya, man. Why are you so serious?"

I glare pointedly up at him and he releases me.

"On second thought, don't answer that. You were saying something about doing, er...something?"

Something. Not very specific, but it's good enough. An even better word would be anything. Anything to forget, anything to take me back, anything to get rid of the goddamn aching in my head. Some say the truth is stranger than fiction, but they haven't been through what I've been through. The truth isn't stranger. It's more depressing, more mentally draining, and it's completely and utterly heartless in the way it tosses people around like rag dolls in a child's hands. All smoke and mirrors and blinding light at the same time. The reality of it nearly makes me weep in despair and laugh in insanity. It's enough to make me more exhausted beyond belief. I should be at home right now, studying to become a computer science major, not being involved in car chases and petty theft. But it's my decision and that's the thing. I've realized that I had vaulted the last possible barrier that could have turned me around. Way back when, in the train station bathroom, I vowed to overcome every obstacle that blocked my way. But I was caught unawares when that obstacle became myself. When Gary threw me into the car, that obstacle was shattered. And that was that. And this became more real than I could ever imagine. In resigning myself to the inevitability of New York and of Sam, I chose my path and I have to stick with. So now I need something. To distract me from fate.

It scares me.

Gary parks the car along the curb, stuffing the meter with a piece of folded paper and turning the crank. A red light comes up and he tears the exposed corners of the paper.

"There. They can't ticket us if it's broken. Let's go."

We walk along the sidewalk with some other night-on-the-towners. Out here in the crisp night air, the sounds of the city are louder. In front of us, a giggling couple zigzags across the pavement, entwined hands swinging to and fro, seemingly carefree. A woman argues over the phone about a birthday present. A group of musicians with guitars slung over their backs joke around, trying to convert the nervous atmosphere before a performance into courage. I'm suddenly reminded of our web show. Not specifically the show but that we did it on Fridays. Afterwards, if we weren't too wiped out, we'd amble down to the Groovy Smoothie. Carly would take the lead as always while Sam bounced off walls and telephone poles, burning some of her boundless energy. I followed behind torn listening to whatever conversation was occurring a making sure Gibby didn't wander around causelessly as he was apt to do.

The Beatles had it right when they talked about yesterday.

"Wanna see a movie?" Gary asks. We've come to a halt in front of an old theater, one of the ones with a huge flashing marquee overhead. A short line leads to the box office manned by a wizened old ticket seller.

"Sure. But after, you're buying me dinner at a nice restaurant. And no holding hands. I hate PDA."

He grins widely. "Look at you making jokes! I'm so proud of you."

I roll my eyes before joining the line. We buy tickets for a western because, apparently, they remind Gary of himself. He punches me on the arm.

"You know what I'm saying, Freddie? Running from the law, riding my trusty horse, a symbol of the American spirit, I'm a regular Jesse fuckin' James."

He stopped to pose next to a cardboard cutout of a cowboy.

"You do know he was killed right? By some guy who shot him in the back."

The smile falls of his face. "Seriously?"

I nod.

"That sucks," then suddenly brightening up again, he says, "But that won't happen to me. I got you here to watch my back."

I'm momentarily touched at the trust that Gary has placed in me. And when I think about it...he's right. It might have been a short friendship, but he's done a lot for me and I'd do the same for him. I voice my agreement, only to find that he's already at the snack counter, flirting with the popcorn girl. She turns to fill a couple tubs with popcorn and he flashes me a smirk and two thumbs up.

The movie is horrible. All bullets and blood with no character development and no sense of plot whatsoever. Gary likes it.

We end up in a diner, an old fashioned thing, and I wonder if I'm doomed to only eat in diners ever again. In our booth seat, Gary tells me to hold the menu up in front of my face and to not take it down until after we order. I consider asking why, but he holds up his hand to stop my incoming question.

"No worries, Freddie. Just listen."

Is my face _that_ easy to read?

I peek over the top of the cheap plastic cover. Our order is taken by an aging woman with a mass of red hair too big for her head and wrinkles like the Grand Canyon. Yet, she looks happy as she walks from table to table, chatting it up with various customers probably many of whom are regulars. I guess working in a diner wasn't so bad. Maybe I should think of—

"What are you going to do when you find her?"

"What?"

"Sam."

I give him a long look before mumbling, "I don't know."

"Oh."

"But that doesn't matter, if that's what you're trying to say. It doesn't matter because I'll see her and it'll all work out. I know you still think it's crazy and stupid. But it'll work. And if it doesn't, well, then I'll keep trying until it does, until she forgives m—"

Gary hisses at me.

"Quick! Look out the window!"

I hurriedly twist my head, scanning the street outside for anything strange. Nothing. No cops, no Carl. By the time I turn back, there's a burger in front of me on the table. Gary dips a French fry into some ketchup.

"Why?"

"Don't ask questions."

We eat in silence. I wolf it down while Gary chews thoughtfully, glancing at me every few bites. I play with the salt shaker as I patiently wait for him to finish. He uses his last fry to clean the plate and pops it in his mouth.

"Let's roll."

"But aren't we going to—"

"You think I have money? Well, I do...but it's for gas. Why do you think I didn't want her to see our faces?"

"At least leave her a tip," I protest.

"Okay, okay," he digs around in his jacket pocket, plopping a fiver on the table, "Good deed done. Which makes our next move perfectly legit."

He looks around and whispers, "Nonchalant is the key word here."

"Gary, I don't think—"

"That's right. Don't. Just do."

Gary slides from the booth and I nervously follow. Every step feels like torture. My palms start sweating and if I spoke, I pretty sure it would have come out in a stutter.

Out of the corner of his mouth, he mutters, "Don't look back."

I look back.

The waitress is visiting the tables again.

"Walk faster."

She nears our table.

"Run."

"Excuse me!"

A girl's voice rings out in the quiet restaurant. It's a brunette in a gray hooded sweatshirt at the cash register, waiting to pay. She waves her hand and the waitress changes direction. The girl nods at me. Odd.

Gary taps on the window. He's already outside. I walk out, hands in my pockets, the very embodiment of the key word.

Gary barrages me with words. "What were you doing in there? Are you crazy? When I say get out, you better get out. Now let's go."

"Wait."

"Why?"

"Don't ask questions."

For a second, it seems like Gary is going to get mighty pissed. Then he relaxes and claps me on the back.

"I've taught you too well, young dung beetle."

We lean against the side of the building. The door opens and the girl walks out.

"Hey, wait up!"

She spins around and falls into a defensive stance. I retreat a couple steps, fearing she'd start swinging.

"Calm down. I just wanted to thank you."

She slowly lowers her fists.

"Oh. You're welcome."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Gary interjects, "Hold it. What happened? What'd this chick do?"

"This chick saved your ass, that's what happened," she says angrily, "and you should follow your friend's example and thank me."

I nod in agreement. "The waitress was about to notice that we dashed, but, um..."

"Neala."

"-Neala here distracted her."

"Is that so?" Gary smiles charmingly, "In that case I thank you kindly, Miss Neala. And may I introduce myself. Gary Williams, in your debt and at your service."

He grabs her hand and kisses it. The amusement on her face is evident as she takes her hand back and wipes it on her jeans.

"Sorry, but that's not going to work on me."

"I assume you're taken?"

"Hopelessly."

"Damn. All the beautiful ones are."

Before this can get out of hand, I interrupt, "I'm Freddie Benson. And he's right about the debt. We owe you big."

Neala raises an eyebrow. "You owe me, huh? Interesting. What are the two of you doing, stealing from a diner? Kleptomaniacs? Or are you just that hungry?"

I exchange a look with Gary. "We're just road tripping to New York and we ran out of money."

"Ran out of money. That's unfortunate. The good thing is that now I know how you're going to pay me back. How many people can fit in your car?"

"Ahem," Gary coughs, "It's my car. And it's two in front, two in back. That's four."

"Obviously," she rolls her eyes, "Just enough, though."

"For who?"

She shoots us a guarded look.

"Enough."

* * *

**Oh no! Another character? Don't worry. She's not really important. ;)**

**The iCabal profile has links to all the best places!**

**Thanks for reading, please review!**

**PS: Please report grammar/spelling mistakes. I'm not known for my conventions. **


	23. My Playdate with Destiny

**What's this? An update? No way!**

**I'm finally done with school so I have some time on my hands.**

* * *

"A writer? Seriously? Is that like a backup plan or something?"

Neala glares into the mirror from the backseat.

"I've always wanted to write. You wanna make something of it?"

Gary holds his hands up in defense. "No, no. Just curious."

The car swerves as a result of his negligence and I quickly grab the wheel, saving our lives. "10 and 2, Gary, 10 and 2."

Neala snorts as Gary retakes control of the Mustang. "Is he always like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like an idiot."

I shrug. "It comes in flashes."

Gary protests good-naturedly due to his sense of humor. "Neala, I let you into my car for a couple minutes and you've already turned my partner in crime against me. I have half a mind to drop you off at the nearest street corner. No doubt you'll find easy money there."

"Ha," she laughs, "well, you have the half a mind part done already. Take a left here."

Gary complies while I groan into my hand, rubbing my face in exasperation. Put two confident, intelligent, and slightly insane teens into a small, enclosed space and the witty banter flies like no tomorrow. Inevitably, only a few seconds elapse before the thoughts invade my mind.

Sam and I had witty banter.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he does that from time to time."

It takes a moment until I realize they're talking about me. My heart skips a beat and panic seizes my throat rendering me unable to speak. The next logical course in action is the discussion of what causes me to lose focus all the time. I can't tell Neala. For one, she's a...a

I breathe deeply to calm myself. There's nothing to be afraid of. I've accepted my decision and I've made my choices. Nothing's going to change. It's all going to be okay.

"...doing it again. Next right."

"Freddie? Come back, Freddie."

I pull myself back into the conversation. Surprisingly, Neala doesn't ask why I zone out because Gary brings us to the original subject.

"Remind me why we're driving you home?"

"So I can get some clothes and stuff," she answers simply.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa" I get the impression that Gary wants to slam on the brakes, "I thought we were just driving you home? No deal was made about anywhere else."

Neala unbuckles her seatbelt and leans forward. I suppress the urge to channel my mother and tell her about the "necessities of bodily restraint within vehicles in motion." I took a class.

"No, you said you'd drive me. You didn't say where. And besides, you don't really have a choice," she says, her head in between the front seats, "I could rat you out to the cops for stealing."

"Yeah, but then we could say the same thing about you," Gary points out.

Neala smirks. "They won't believe you. Small, teenage girls aren't criminals."

I scoff with memories of troubles passed flowing through my mind. Neala taps Gary on the shoulder and he stops in front of an old, one story house. It's shabby and could use a fresh coat of paint. Plus a new window instead of the boards next to the door. The grass is barren and unkempt, save for a miniature jungle sprouting up underneath a lone tree in the middle of the yard.

I get out and fold the seat forward. Neala leaves, but quickly comes back.

"If I'm not out in five minutes, go in and get me."

She dashes off. We glance at each other.

"Well, that was ominous," he says, "Is she serious?"

I take in the state of the house, the urgency in her voice, and the fact that she's running away.

"How many minutes has it been?"

The door flies open and Neala, with a duffel bag hanging on her shoulder, bursts out amidst angry yelling. She is followed by the sharp sound of breaking glass. Gary revs the engine nervously, his hand twitching on the gear shift. She's at the edge of the grass when a man appears in the doorway.

"Ya good fer nothin' girl! I'll kill ya, ya whore!" He shouts. He waves a beer bottle threateningly then hurls it at us. It glints in the moonlight as it falls short but the message is clear.

I shove her in as soon as she gets close enough. The man begins to lumber down the steps, but by then he's in our rearview mirror.

"Sorry, about that. My dad's a little cranky all the time," Neala apologizes breathlessly. Her eyes are wide, not fearful, just wound up, "Three guesses why I'm making a break for it. Take a left here."

"So is he, like, just mean or did you do something?"

I wonder if Gary had any tact to begin with or did he just decline with age. I'd hate to see him in his 50s, sitting in movie theaters all day, loudly discussing the finer points of various film conclusions.

Neala doesn't seem to mind though. She casually reclines in the back.

"It's mutual."

I can tell she wants us to press further with the way she smirks out the window, teasing us. Jealousy wells up inside me. She has the confidence and clear thinking that makes dealing with her problems something to be mocked and not feared. It's taken me months to work up to where I am now, finally aware of my place in my own life.

"Why is that?" I ask.

"It all started why back when I was born," she starts lightly, "My mom died giving birth to me. My dad's blamed me ever since. I never knew the woman, but it would've been nice to have a female role model. Or even a role model in general. Anyway, he felt like I owed him so I had to do whatever he told me."

Gary narrows his eyes at the road ahead, obviously thinking of the worse case scenario. "Did he..."

"No, nothing like that. But I was restricted. He decided everything. No questions asked. Clean the house, wash the car, cook the food, fix the hole in the ceiling, you know, Cinderella stuff, except with no ball or prince charming."

My jealousy fizzles away to pity. My own mother might be restrictive, but she would have never forced me to obey her will. I think I've run into every type of problem on this trip. I'm a magnet for runaways.

"I did well in school, despite my dad's domestic expectations," Neala leaned close to Gary and said loudly into his ear, "I loved English and writing." He rolls his eyes. "High school came and college started looking close so I asked my dad about what college I should go to. Pull a U-turn, you missed the left on Allen Street. This is where it gets good. He tells me I'm going to the community college and getting a small time local job. He told me writing was useless and a waste of time"

She frowns in sudden anger.

"I was like, 'Bullshit! I can be somebody. You can't bring me down!' He got pissed, grounded me, and I've been languishing ever since. Right on Fairway. We're almost there."

Gary turns his head slightly, but before he can ask her where exactly we were headed, a thought pops into my head.

"Wait, you got accepted into a college, didn't you. You don't seem like the person who'd runaway without a foolproof reason."

She laughs merrily," Of course I got into a school. Full scholarship to NYU."

I'm impressed. She wasn't kidding when she said she could be somebody. On the other hand, Gary is more concerned with the present.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"Here."

Gary brakes abruptly. It's a two story, nice looking though a little plain. It's dark out, but I guess a shade of beige covers the house and garage. White shutters frame the window and there's an old swing set along the side next to the fence. Flowers sprout randomly through the garden beneath the bay window. Subconsciously, I think that none of us could ever live here.

"What's here?"

She grins. "My heart and soul."

Neala gestures for me to get out. The air is now colder than ever. My breath condenses and floats skyward, eventually disappearing against the navy blanket. My watch says it's nearly midnight. Neala strides purposefully up the walk. I wonder if anyone's awake open the door. My worries come to naught when she produces a key. She vanishes from view.

The wind blows and I shut the door so the heat won't escape. I tighten my jacket around my body. It seems so long ago that I braced myself against the cold, steady Seattle wind. Here in Chicago, it's different, rough and careless and vibrant. But, even if it's not the same, it carries the same sense of expectancy, the same tingling of hope and fall of despair in a single gust. I used to be person who wouldn't believe in... I don't know, the supernatural. But now after closely dodging Carl, meeting Gary and Neala, and leaning on this car, it's like things have come full circle. I'm sure of myself and that ends one part of a journey and begins another. The calm comes with a satisfaction of hardships passed and the foreboding of the future. But that's alright. Because I'm in Chicago, after closely dodging Carl, meeting Gary and Neala, and leaning on this car.

Sam's never been so close before.

A quiet click cuts through the wind. Neala steps out from the shadows with a big backpack, extending a hand behind her. She slowly makes her way down the steps simultaneously aiding another. It's a girl. Long flowing blonde hair, dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. In her left hand she holds a long metal stick ending in a white tip.

They carefully make their way along the path. It sounds like the blonde is gently protesting the help. As they get nearer, I make out the sightless grey eyes.

"Hey, Freddie," Neala says quietly, "This is my best friend, Opal. She's coming with us."

The friend offers a hand which I shake.

"Opal Sinclair," she smiles at me. Her voice is soft and airy, evanescent.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Freddie Benson."

I open the door, giving Neala a curious look. She avoids my gaze and busies herself helping Opal into the car.

"Hello, beautiful. I'm Gary," I hear from the inside. It's followed by a reprimand from Neala and a thump.

"Keep it in your goddamn pants."

"Oh, that's not very eloquent, writer."

I figure to climb in incase things escalate to the point of no return. However, for being an acquaintance of only a couple hours, Neala has fit herself into the group wonderfully, a necessity for a long trip. Opal giggles at Gary's reply and he looks pleased. Neala glowers.

We drive off into the night.

Minutes on the freeway, Gary dozes off so I decide it's safer for Neala to take over. A seat shuffle ensues and I find myself in the back with Opal who didn't move at Neala's request. Gary snores in the passenger seat with his seatbelt pressing into his face.

"Go ahead. I know you want to ask."

Opals voice startles me. Not because I was surprised, but because she's right. Her grey eyes stare and I suddenly feel uncomfortable.

"I-I just..."

"I've been blind since I was 7. I was in a car accident. Kids made fun of me, so my family moved. Neala was my first friend in the new school. I'd do anything for her," Opal says calmly.

It's unnerving the way she answers all my questions in the space of a few sentences.

"Oh."

She smiles brightly in reassurance. "It's okay to talk to me. I'm not going to be offended by anything you say. I'm not a little girl that needs protecting."

Opal emphasizes the last part. Neala picks up on it. She lets out a disparaging noise that gets caught in her throat.

Opal's eyes flick toward the sound, but she ignores it and motions for me to go on.

"So...why?"

The weighted question doesn't faze her.

"Because I want to," she answers easily, "My first priority is to protect Neala. Though she insists it's the other way around. She can be quite stubborn."

This time the brunette can't resist.

"I just don't want to see you hurt," she mutters.

"I'm capable, Nel," Opal returns evenly, an almost daring tone to her voice.

Neala stays silent. The atmosphere is divided, both tense and calm. This conversation has happened before.

Opal gazes out the window as Neala drives on.

I fall asleep.

* * *

The crunch of gravel and dirt tells me we've pulled over.

The car rolls to a stop and the engine falls silent.

I sit with my head against the glass, my eyes still closed. The night is perfectly calm, tranquil even. Everything is quiet but for the faint chirping of crickets outside.

The seconds turn into minutes.

Neala whispers.

"Freddie, I know you're awake."

The car door opens and closes with an echoing click. I open my eyes. Neala's faint silhouette sits, leaning on the hood of the car and causing it to dip. Opal fidgets slightly, her soft, steady breath sending mushrooms of condensation across the window.

I carefully extract myself from the seatbelt.

The air outside is biting. Or maybe I'm just drifting off again.

"So I guess you noticed," Neala mutters, gazing out at the vague, shifting shapes in the darkness. The pale moon doesn't provide enough light to define anything. There's a field of tall grass to our right, but it could be an ocean with the way it undulates, rolling and rippling like waves of ink.

I join her on the hood. It's warm and comforting in the midst of the unfamiliar area.

"Noticed what?"

She flicks a speck of mud from the bumper and glances back at the windshield, or rather, through it.

"Nothing. Nevermind."

I know nothing I say can get it from her. But now, it wasn't about me.

I check the time to find that a day has passed. I've been asleep for over 14 hours, ever since we picked up Neala and Opal the previous night.

"C'mon. We've known each other for, what, about, 23, 24 hours. You can tell me."

She rolls her eyes.

"Uh, no. I can't. You were asleep for like over half that time. And besides," she adds as an afterthought, "my problems are my business."

A breathless moment follows.

"Sam."

She gives me a long look. I continue. She wants to know; but it's not the reason I tell her. I look skyward at the stars dotted throughout the depths of space. It's amazing the way I can feel so insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

"I said things that hurt her and she left. I'm going to New York because I want my friend back and because, well, I—l love her."

Neala 's eyes widen in surprise then darken with apprehension. She lowers her gaze, embarrassed.

"I guess we're in the same boat. Except Opal's right here."

I'm floored. We both lay back on the now cold hood.

"Does she know?"

"I don't know."

Sometimes I think that the universe gets lazy and throws all the people with problems in one boat.

That way they can all go down at the same time.

* * *

**Abrupt, but I had to cut it off because the next chapter would have been hard to put together. Anyway, another OC! Egads, I must be desperate. Not to worry. Things will sort themselves out. **

**Please review! And don't be too mean. I'm just getting back into the hang of writing this story. Of course, if you feel like it cuss me out.**

** ~The CABAL~**

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	24. My Busy Day

**Was that a hiatus or what? ****College apps = lots of work**

**I tried something different this time.**

* * *

So maybe jumping into a dumpster isn't such a stellar idea. I know Opal agrees with the way she frowns, shrinking away from the black plastic bags of garbage. Not that I expect anyone to enjoy giant metal boxes of filth. The stench permeates the air around us and my eyes water.

I hold my breath.

But not because of the smell. I lay still, waiting for the pounding footsteps to rush past. They disappear around the corner of the alleyway.

Hesitantly, Opal asks in a whisper, "Are-Are they gone?"

I carefully peek over the top. Other than the dumpster, a few scattered bottles, and a stack of cardboard, the alleyway is empty. The morning sun manages to break through the smoggy gloom. Rush hour cars roll by the entrance to the alley.

"Yeah," I reply, "They can't do anything to us in broad daylight anyways. It's not them we have to worry about."

I grab her hand and pull her into a standing position.

"Here, wait. I'll get down first."

I clamber out of the dumpster. After wiping off stray bits of trash, I call out, "Put a leg over and feel for a ledge type thing. Then swing the other leg over and I'll carry you down from there."

Opal pushes forward through the bags, feeling for the edge with her hands. She uses one leg to find the small metal rung that runs the length of the outside of the dumpster. Then she holds on tight and puts the other leg over.

"Freddie?"

I hold her by the waist and she tumbles down into me.

"You okay?"

She nods. A candy wrapper falls out of her hair. It gets caught in a draft and is blown out into the street.

"Come on, let's find Gary and Neala."

She takes my hand. I realize she must have lost her cane some time during the night. Then again, it wouldn't have helped. I had no idea where we were so I was just as powerless. The lost leading the blind. I'm pretty sure there's a punch line in there somewhere.

* * *

"Yo, let's stop here," Gary said, gesturing around in every general direction from his post in the passenger seat. Gary was in an alarmingly cheerful mood. Neala had driven since she took control of the wheel so he had literally hibernated until now. He didn't remember the last time he'd slept like he did. With no end in sight. It must have been back in the summer before eighth grade when the days were long and easy, when he was young enough to have no responsibilities and he was old enough to appreciate loafing around. By no means was he regretting his venture into the unknown; he had just forgotten the comfort of no expectations. Because when there were no expectations, he could make his own. He was in control.

"Oh, so you're able to talk now? I guess all good things do have to come to an end," Neala quipped.

Opal laughed from the backseat. Freddie...well, it's going to take more than that to get Freddie laughing.

"Funny. Very funny. Really, it was. I even nearly replied with a comeback, but then I remembered how funny it was. Very. Actually hilarious if you think about it. In fact, it was so funny-"

Neal rolled her eyes and cut him off.

"What were you saying about stopping here?"

Gary smirked. He could irritate the hell out of a statue if he wanted to.

"Yeah," he nodded, "let's stop here. It looks nice enough."

"Where's here?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Well, _you_ wanted to stop—"

"We're in Cleveland," Freddie offered.

Gary looked back with wide eyes. "Do you have a GPS somewhere in your brain? Have you been holding out on me?"

Freddie shrugged. "While you guys were...discussing between yourselves, a sign passed. It said we're in Cleveland."

Neala jerked the wheel to the right.

"So Cleveland it is," she said as the car zoomed onto the off ramp. Gary drummed on the dash in excitement.

* * *

"You idiot! I can't believe you! What was going through your mind?"

Neala had been shouting at him non-stop and he was getting sick of it. The whole thing might have been his fault, but he didn't need reminding. It wasn't as if he didn't know exactly what he was getting into. Except for a couple serious surprises, he had been expecting retaliation. Still, he wasn't going to take anything back anytime soon. That guy was practically begging for it.

"You better pray that we find Opal or I'll be stuffing your bloody carcass down the nearest sewage pipe.

But Neala didn't think so. Neala was supposedly more _calm_ and _level-headed_. Goddamn mental chick. Who the hell wants to become a writer?

"Don't worry. We'll find her. Or them." Gary grinned winningly. "Trust me."

Neala's eyes flashed dangerously. Before she could open her mouth to screech at him some more (probably how she'd never trust him or about how he was a sack of worthless manure), he held up his hands haltingly.

"I mean we can trust Freddie. The kid's smart. And if he's as smart as I think he is, then I know exactly where they'll be."

Neala was silent for a moment. Gary inwardly celebrated his little victory at shutting her up.

"Fine," she relented, "Lead the way."

* * *

Our first and last visit to Cleveland starts at a rundown pub in the early hours of the morning.

Gary is at the wheel again, navigating through the city streets while I scan the passing buildings guiltily. We'd been set on getting a nice meal, but I had pointed out that nice meals cost money. My little revelation had put a damper on everyone's mood so I'd taken it upon myself to search for a cheap source of good food.

It's a hole in the wall kinda joint. I nearly miss it at first. Squeezed in between a pawnshop and a dance studio, the pub seems out of place and yet it fits in with its surroundings in the way that old shops usually do.

"Turn around," I say, "I think I found something."

We enter the pub as a ragged group. Gary goes first, pulling the door open and swaggering in like he owned the place, while the rest of us file in behind him. Inside it's warm with a cigarette atmosphere. The bar is littered with sloppy eyed drunks and all but two of the booths are empty. One is occupied by a couple of tattooed guys who seem to be racing through a plate of nachos and the second by three men with long dark coats, whispering furtively and appearing suspicious in every way possible.

We make our way to the corner booth. Neala, Opal, and I take seats, but Gary stays standing. He glances at the bar and says, "What do you guys want? I'll get the food."

"I'll have whatever the others are having," we all announce simultaneously. Gary rolls his eyes.

"So four orders of onion rings it is then."

He leaves before we can object.

"That guy," Neala says, shaking her head.

Opal laughs. "I think he's funny."

Her friend snorts in response.

"Yeah, funny _looking_."

Neala shoots a disgruntled look at Gary, who is apparently trying to convince the barman to sell him a shot. Neala's confession the other night floats to the top of my mind. With that and the eyes/daggers now fixed on Gary's back, I hope Gary learns to watch his step around both the girls for his own sake.

Suddenly a hulking figure is blocking my view of the bar. It's one of those nacho guys, a muscle head with bright red hair. He leers at Opal, grinning self-assuredly as he rests his hands on the table. His buddy is nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, blondie, how's it goin'? You wanna come with me for a little fun? Ditch these chumps?"

Opal raises her eyebrows, staring in the guy's general direction.

"Who is it?" She asks Neala.

I wince at the way Neala is grinding her teeth.

"No one. Just some loser," she says and glares up at Red. "You can piss off now, Red."

The muscles in Red's neck tighten and he leans down into Neala's face.

"Well, I wasn't talkin' to you, was I? Besides, I didn't know she was a 'blindie' not a blondie," he smirks at his own lame joke, "I don't want to have to tell her where my di—"

"Hey, wanna play some pool?"

* * *

Opal and I try to find our way back to the car, but the Mustang eludes us street after street. I know Gary parked the car a couple blocks from the pub. But we're having trouble finding that, too. Hope is quickly fading though luckily we had seen neither hide nor tail of the punks. But of course, they're not the only ones we're trying to avoid.

We trudge down another avenue. The sun is staring to heat up the sidewalk and we're both tired. We hadn't gotten to eat due to Gary's antagonistic reflexes so we're also even hungrier than before.

Opal tugs on my sleeve.

"Can we rest for a bit? My feet are killing me."

"Sure," I answer. I look around for a seat or something. There's a bench a few feet away and we gladly take the weight off our weary legs.

I groan with pleasure. Opal leans her head back, eyes closed.

"Remind me to thank Gary for letting us ride with him. That car makes the world all okay."

"Yeah, I know. I don't know what I'd—"

Behind us comes the sound of tires screeching to a stop followed by a car door opening. A slew of angry shouts fills the air, hurling insults at the car that had apparently stopped traffic. But the only voice that matters is quiet and calm.

"Nice to see you again, Fredward."

Even after all that running throughout the morning, Carl still isn't out of breath.

* * *

"Hey, wanna play some pool?"

Red has just enough time to look up with an annoyed look on his face before it's smashed in with a cue stick. He stumbles back into a table, sending sauce bottles crashing to the ground. Gary swishes the cue like a fencing foil and points it at Red's bloody face.

"Eight ball in the corner pocket."

Neala jumps out of her seat.

"Jesus Christ, Gary!"

If the previous commotion wasn't enough to gain the attention of the entire bar, then Neala's deafening surprise surely is. The drunks are peering curiously over their shoulders while the mafia guys stare emotionlessly, doubtless from years of practice against interrogation. The bartender throws his rag down on the counter and frowns. He makes to lecture our little scene, but before he can, Red's buddy comes strolling out from the bathrooms near the back.

He freezes at the sight of his friend weakly wiping the blood from his broken nose, threatened by Gary's cue stick.

"What the hell?"

In one simultaneous motion, we all bolt from the booth. Neala drags Opal by the hand and Gary still has the cue in his hand. Red shouts from his place on the ground, "Get those little fuckers!"

His friend, who I decide to call Blue, tries to catch us by vaulting over several tables, but we're already too close to the exit. We burst out of the stuffy pub into the brisk air outside.

The sun is barely breaking the horizon and if I had time I would've stopped and watch it rise above the city with its watery yellows and peachy oranges.

* * *

**Part 1 Complete. The second half of this chapter will be up soon. At least sooner than last time. Also, forgive me for being disjointed. I wrote this chapter over a period of four weeks, about 5 or so lines every day.**

**Review! (And grammar/spelling, please.)**


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